


In This Life or Another

by XFiles93Aficionado



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Love, Parenthood, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:51:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XFiles93Aficionado/pseuds/XFiles93Aficionado
Summary: Following the failed assassination attempt on Gibson Praise and the vanishing of his parents in their blood-spattered house, Mulder and Scully are assigned to the boy’s protection … under new identities, new jobs, and a new location. They pose as husband and wife under the Witness Protection Program in an isolated hamlet where long-forgotten, strange, and controversial events are brought back to the surface by a bored Mulder, desperate to relieve the monotony of civilian life.Set shortly after 6x01 The Beginning.





	1. Meet Mr. and Mrs. Jones.

**Author's Note:**

> Doing some research, I found out that the TV series Stranger Things was loosely inspired by obscure events claiming time and space travel, mind control, aliens that may have taken place after WWII in Montauk, a small and peaceful little village at the East point of Long Island where I used to go to every summer in my young-adult years (Stranger Things was in fact sold under the working title Montauk).
> 
> This story uses some of the events included in the Montauk Project and another one referenced as the “Montauk Monster” which was discovered in 2008.

MONTAUK, NEW YORK.  
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 28, 1998.

Mulder and Scully exited the Chevy. As they started toward the restaurant, he took her hand and almost immediately stopped her, lifted her collar jacket to better cover her neck against a sudden gust of chilly wind that grabbed at their breath, and wrapped his arms around her waist, shielding her from the blow. Snow was still in the air, but he didn’t feel one bit cold. He stared into her eyes for an instant, seeking her approval, gauging her mood, and then he bent down to kiss her, the boy’s words still echoing in his mind: “Agent Scully is already in love.”

When they eventually broke the kiss, she cocked her head to the side, smiling up at him. “What was that for?”

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since we left the house.”

“I thought this wasn’t a date, Mulder.” She smiled again. “And yet it looks very much like it.”

“Call it what you like, Scully, I’m just glad for the night out.”

He looked at her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smoothing her cheek with his fingers.

“Let’s get inside before we turn into snowmen,” she said.

A waitress in her mid-thirties, tall and slim with dark hair and light-green eyes, ambled around the counter toward them and, with a genuine smile, held out her right hand to welcome them as they entered the warm restaurant.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jones, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Karen.”

“Hi,” Scully said as she grasped the waitress’s hand. The word came out almost like a question, and her skeptical eyes inquired Mulder’s for an explanation as for the “to finally meet you” part. Ever since they had arrived to this village, she had felt like a famous rock star and although she was starting to get used to it, she couldn’t help second-guessing the wisdom of the Marshals’ original choice of place.

“I’m sorry,” Karen explained, “I’m Sheriff Hardaway’s wife. I saw your name in the registration book and I thought that was you. Montauk is a very small community, Mrs. Jones—”

“Please, call me Mary. I understand that’s the way it works out here … and this is David,” she said as she gestured toward Mulder.

“Nice to meet you.” Mulder shook her hand and then returned his to Scully’s lower back.

“You too,” Karen said. “So, yeah, it’s a very small village, everybody knows everybody. But it’s great, you’ll get used to it, you’ll see.”

Mulder and Scully smiled politely. If anything, they wouldn’t have minded being invisible these days.

“Follow me, I’ll show you to your table.” Karen grabbed two menus from the bar and led the way across the restaurant. “Your son’s not here tonight?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Um, no,” Mulder said, “tonight’s special; it’s our anniversary.”

Scully looked at him, incredulous, and let a smirking Mulder take her hand as they followed Karen.

Karen stopped at a small round table for two by the wide glass window overlooking Fort Pond, and then asked “How many years?” with apparently little shame about her out-of-place curiosity. That too, they were beginning to get used to.

“Five,” Mulder replied.

“Oh, I thought your son was a bit older.”

“He is,” Scully smiled softly, trying to stay nice, “he’s twelve.”

“Ha,” Karen said with a knowing smile. “Well, you have a good evening. Would you like anything to drink? It’s on the house.”

Mulder and Scully put their jackets on the back of their chairs, ordered drinks, and Karen walked away. They stayed silent a little while, looking first at their menus and then at the view outside as the early-winter sun set in reddish hues over the dunes that were dappled with the snow of the day’s fall, and Karen came back a few moments later with a glass of iced tea and a beer.

“I’m ready when you are, guys,” she said before walking away again.

Mulder put his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together as if in prayer, and rested his chin upon them.

“You’re still angry at me,” he observed as Scully’s eyes dropped to her menu.

She looked back up at him and then around the restaurant. There weren’t a lot of people eating, just two other couples who looked somewhat familiar at nearby tables, but she kept her voice low to avoid any eager eavesdroppers from what seemed to be the most indiscreet town on earth.

She sighed. “I’m not _angry_ , Mulder. How can I be angry when I can’t remember half of what all the fuss was about? The other half being … well, you know. I just want this to be over so we can go back to our lives.”

He smiled. “You don’t like Mr. and Mrs. Jones?”

“This is harder than I had imagined.”

“It won’t last forever,” he said. “They’ll find him a safe place.”

“Eventually.”

She thought back about the day that had led to this awkward situation they now found themselves stuck in.

It was a few days after Skinner had informed them that the X-Files had been closed and that they had a new assistant director. The night she had told Mulder about her discovery of Gibson’s DNA, they had been leaving work in Mulder’s car when Skinner had called her phone.

_“I know I’m not your direct superior anymore, but I’ve just been informed that the Praise residence has been attacked and Gibson’s parents are missing.”_

_“What do you mean, ‘missing’?” The anxiety in her voice had made Mulder turn his face from the road to look at her._

_“Blood has been found in their kitchen and living room,” Skinner had said. “We’ll be running tests but we must assume it’s the parents’. A lot of blood. It’s not good.”_

_“Any news on Gibson?”_

_“No, but I’ll ask Assistant Director Kersh to keep you posted.”_

Mulder’s voice broke into the far end of Scully’s thoughts and she looked up at him. He closed his menu and put it to the side of his plate.

“Whaddaya say? I heard the lobster is the real deal,” he said, reaching out for his beer and leaning back in his chair.

“I’m not hungry enough for a whole lobster.”

“Want to split it?”

“Of course,” she said with a smile.

“Good,” he said and then he turned around in his chair and waved a hand over at Karen.

“Where did you hear the lobster was good?”

“Not good, Scully: _excellent_. Paul told me. Well … now that I know that he sleeps with the host, I’m not so sure he’s the most reliable source.”

She smiled softly back at him.

Mulder reached out for her glass, handed it to her and clicked his beer bottle against it. They sipped their beverages while waiting for Karen to arrive and take their orders.

“Do you think his parents are dead?” Scully asked after Karen was gone.

“That’s what’s bothering you?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Gibson asked me the same question just this evening—when we came back from the lighthouse. I don’t know, Scully, really,” he replied. “But until further news, we have to assume the worst. And we must assume Gibson’s life is threatened too since Dian—” He trailed off when she averted her eyes.

He nodded softly, keeping his gaze on her. She knew that Diana’s condition had come to both their minds more than once ever since they’d gotten here—more than she would have wanted. Diana Fowley had been shot to protect Gibson, _shot a second time_ , Mulder would have most likely added. And no matter how she put it, Scully knew that Mulder still didn’t understand her reaction regarding the other female agent.

She remembered when Kersh had kept them up to date the day after Agent Fowley had been shot the first time. And ever since that day—maybe even before that—Mulder had been acting differently toward Scully, more distant and awkward, almost as if he were now uncomfortable having both women around him. But then again, if she were honest with herself, maybe she had acted differently, too.

_“Young Gibson Praise has been found,” A.D. Kersh had said to them just a few days before they’d been assigned to this new life. “So, now, we have to take extra precautions. Hide him. We ought to find him a safe shelter while we try and figure out what happened to his parents—which doesn’t seem to lead to much hope. And since you have nothing better to do, the X-Files being out of your hands, all three of you will vanish; you’ll secure the boy.”_

_“I, um—” Mulder had said and trailed off._ What??! _had been what Scully read on his face, and that was more or less what she’d thought, too._

_“You’ll have new identities, new jobs, a new location …” Kersh had continued._

_“Like, undercover, sir?” Scully had asked, ever so calm and stoic._

_“More like the Witness Protection Program. Actually, the Marshals will take over.”_

_“Sir, the Witness Protection Program is a long-term option,” Scully had argued. That was a lot to take, she had thought, and she and Mulder had every right to agree or—for that matter—to disagree to this kind of mission. “Why not protect him in a motel room as we’ve done before?”_

_“Yeah. We all know how that ended: with a bullet in Agent Fowley’s lung. It won’t be definitive, agent. You’ll just disappear for a little while.”_

_“Why us? Don’t the Marshals set up the witness protection?” Scully had asked again, taking over at Mulder’s apparent loss of words._

_“Gibson Praise knows you. He trusts you two. Or so I’ve heard. It’s nothing personal.”_

_“Nothing personal,” Mulder had repeated bitterly._

_“Define ‘a little while’, please, sir,” Scully had said._

_“I can’t say exactly. But you’re due to leave town tonight.”_

_“Tonight? Sir, with all due respect, Gibson Praise is in the care of the X-Files, and Agents Fowley and Spender are in charge of the X-Files now.”_

_“Agent Fowley is in the hospital; she’s been shot. Again.”_

_“What? How?” Mulder had asked._

_“She’s the one who found the boy.”_

_“Oh, she found him, eh?” Scully had commented, dubious. “When everyone searched and no one knew where he was hiding?”_

_“What’s her condition, sir?”_

_“She’s been put in an induced coma to relieve the pain and decrease the swelling,” Kersh had said. “Her doctors don’t know yet if she’s going to make it.”_


	2. Fifteen Days Earlier.

MONTAUK, NEW YORK.  
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 13, 1998.

The black Hummer followed the grey Chevy like a magnet through the placid village without encountering a single car. The cars veered off to the right on South Shore Road and then cast a cloud of dust when they stopped abruptly, switching off their lights and engines in the tall weeds and silvery beach grasses on the side of the dirt road. Fog had descended on the night air, and the lane was deserted for as far as one could see. In the distance, a dog’s bark echoed through the rows of bare and deciduous trees, probably coming from one of the two nearest houses whose dark silhouettes with steeply pitched, almost free-form rooflines stood almost two hundred yards away.

The cars remained parked, immobile for a moment as if stuck in epic traffic-clogged freeways in D.C., except there was no traffic here, only the dust ebbing away in the quiet moonlight. Inside the Hummer, the driver was gently waking up his backseat passengers, and it took a minute or two before he and a woman, both fully dressed in black, got out from behind the wheel of each car. The man opened the back door and the briny smell of the sea filled the car as Mulder and Scully eased themselves out. Mulder was holding a sleepy Gibson in his arms. He readjusted his hands around the boy and they all quickly walked up the driveway toward their new residence, the gravel crunching loudly under the quickened pace of their feet in contrast to the ambient silence. Mulder looked up at the wooden two-story house, his breath streaming from his mouth in a dense cloud. In the blue and cold light of the November night, it was too dark to determine whether the small house was painted light grey or white or yellow, but it looked like a nice—maybe even fancy—Shingle-style cottage. In any case, it would be different from his small apartment in Alexandria, or from any of the cheap motels they usually checked in for that matter.

The woman unlocked the door, pushed it open, and led the way inside the house. She then switched on the lights as Mulder carefully lay Gibson down on the couch, and the man closed the door after he and Scully got in.

“Oh, they turned the heat on, good thinking,” the woman said, apparently to herself.

“A few guys were here this morning to bring some furniture. The rest of your new stuff should be here in the morning,” the man said, but Mulder and Scully barely acknowledged either the man or woman in black.

Scully hobbled over to the couch and slumped wearily on its armrest next to where Gibson was sound asleep and bent down to take off her heels. When she sat upright again, Mulder noticed she was covering her mouth with the back of her hand, but couldn’t hide—let alone suppress—the yawn that betrayed her exhaustion and threatened to trigger a contagious response across the group. Mulder suspected she couldn’t find the effort to care, either. Holding his arms above his head, he stretched his back and rolled his head on his shoulders, and then looked at his wristwatch; it was after three, and they had been on the road for more hours than they could count.

The man turned to Mulder as he continued to go over the last details of this operation: “Here are the keys to your car, _David_. I mean, it’s your car too, Agent Scully. No offense. We can even arrange for a second car in a couple of weeks or months if you need it. In the meantime, the Chevrolet’s yours.”

Scully leaned forward, elbows on her knees and hands clasped. “Weeks or months,” she muttered under her breath with a resigned look.

It was barely audible but Mulder caught it; he knew this assignment was going to be hell for her. He figured the part where she had to stay away from her mother for an indeterminate length of time would be the worst of it.

“I know you haven’t had much time to look at the papers we gave you,” the woman said, “but please take a moment to quickly do so. It’s important. You’ll learn everything there is to know about David and Mary Jones, as well as about your son, Jason.”

The woman looked at Mulder and Scully and they nodded.

“I’ll go and get your suitcases and coats,” the man said, and he went out of the house.

“And you have your new phones and IDs.”

The woman paused and looked at Mulder and Scully again as if to make sure they understood.

“You’ll find some cash in the same envelope for your first days here. WITSEC typically pays for witness housing in their new region, new furnishings, and a salary based on the cost of living in any given area. That amount depends on local economics, the size of the family, stuff like that. On average, members receive roughly $60,000 from the government before they’re expected to land jobs and become self-supporting within six months.”

“Six months…” Scully whispered again, the disbelief growing in her voice, and Mulder could relate.

“Some witnesses have had a lot more of course …” The woman agent paused again, maybe rightly realizing from their uninterested faces that they didn’t actually need to know all the details of how the Witness Protection Program worked. “Anyway. In the near future, you’ll have to find jobs. Agent Mulder, you could be a counselor at Gibson’s school if there’s an opening, and Agent Scully, since you’re still a doctor in this life, maybe you could replace a peer on maternity leave or … I don’t know.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a cloud namer, or a space lawyer or something.”

The Marshal smiled at Mulder.

“Well, you won’t be laughing when the Martians come …”

She smiled again. “I’m not very worried about either of you; you’ll figure something out. Look out for what’s available. And since we’re on the income topic, we’ve set up an appointment for you at the Bridgehampton National Bank tomorrow at four-thirty. It’s a five-minute drive from here. Until you get new credit cards, use the cash. I can’t urge you enough not to use your own credit cards. The same is true for your email addresses and your phones, which I hope you didn’t bring with you.”

“You searched our luggage _and_ our pockets … that would have been tricky,” Scully commented.

“Sorry about that, but it was for your own safety. And first and foremost for Gibson’s.”

“We know,” Mulder said mildly.

“Okay. You also have a meeting with Miss Taylor, the East Hampton middle school’s principal. Gibson—or Jason—is due to be back at school on Monday. That’s three days away, so you have a little while to get used to your new situation. Be there on time and make a good impression. I know it’s late and we’re all exhausted and there’s a lot to process, but everything’s in the documents we gave you.”

“Okay,” Mulder said flatly as he absently watched the male agent carry their luggage to the upper floor.

Bitterly, he realized he and Scully had turned into puppets. Pawns. It wasn’t a first. But, this time, the game was different: they were aware of it, it was completely beyond their control for they had to play by the strict rules they’d been meticulously given and follow orders they couldn’t disregard as they usually did. The decisions weren’t theirs and they would have only a little room to maneuver. Pawns in spite of having a chess genius on their side, how ironic.

“I guess you’re all set then. Do you have any questions?”

Mulder and Scully looked at each other. She was perplexed, he could tell. Or maybe she simply wanted this to be over with. Did they have any questions? What were they forgetting? They were clearly too tired to tell. Mulder pressed his lips together, his typical face to warn Scully he was about to say something silly.

“I like to watch a good movie before going to bed, but I had to leave my videos behind. Are we the kind of people who subscribe to cable?”

Unlike he had expected, Scully didn’t roll her eyes. When was the last time she hadn’t grabbed an opportunity to lecture him?

The Marshal woman smiled. “I doubt it. Not yet anyway, you don’t even have a TV set. But feel free to subscribe to whatever you want to when you do. This is your life after all.”

Mulder pursed his lips and nodded.

“There’s always the movie theater, of course,” the woman said.

“He only likes two kinds of movies,” Scully commented tiredly. “One is alien autopsies, and the other is … well.”

He _knew_ she couldn’t resist. “It’s all about research, Scully, really.”

She looked up at him. “Ever consider a career as a pornography historian? ’Cause now might just be the right time.”

“Why not? Just imagine how fun ‘Bring Your Parents to Work Day’ would be for Gibson and his new mates.”

The agent ducked her head to conceal a smile and waited patiently for another question which didn’t come.

“Okay then, guys, we’ll let you rest. You three have a good life.”

 _Whatever the hell that means_ , Mulder commented inwardly.

After they all shook hands, Mulder locked the door behind the Marshal and looked out the window as the Hummer disappeared quietly onto the road. When he turned around, Scully was getting up, her body strained under fatigue. With hands on her hips, she was looking across the living-room. He followed her gaze; the room was clean with white painted walls and waxed hardwood floors, there was a loveseat and a small coffee table, but no dining table, no chair, lamp, or any decorations whatsoever.

Her eyes fell on Gibson, still asleep on the couch, and she crossed to the stairs. “At the very least, let’s hope they put beds in this house.”

Mulder followed her up the stairs—“A moonshiner,” he said suddenly, “that would be a cool job, too,” but whether Scully heard or listened, she made no comment—where a small and narrow hallway led to doors that opened to three bedrooms and a bathroom. Fortunately, they found a double bed in each bedroom. That was actually all there was.

Moving sluggishly forward on either side of the threshold, Mulder and Scully glanced inside one of the rooms; the moonlight coming through the windows lay in a rectangle across the bed as if to emphasize the fact that they _did_ put beds in the house. Mulder looked at Scully who seemed to go from disbelief to disappointment—maybe as she realized this was what her room looked like now?—and he went back downstairs to pick up Gibson.

He put him to bed on his back, took his shoes and glasses off, unbuttoned his pants just enough to make him more comfortable for the night, and covered him with a blanket which was neatly folded at the foot of the bed.

After he was done, he returned to Scully. She was staring at her reflection in the mirror in the bathroom—which appeared to be the only one in the house unless he’d missed one downstairs. He didn’t know what was on her mind or what she was seeing but she didn’t seem to have seen him. She was here without being here, like a ghost of herself.

Mulder quietly cleared his throat to capture his partner’s attention and she acknowledged his presence with the briefest of glances between them through the mirror.

“Right or left?” he asked as he braced his back against the doorframe.

“What do you mean?”

“The conjugal bed. Would you rather sleep on the right side or the left?”

She turned around to him. “Mulder—” She trailed off and sighed, slumping onto the edge of the bathtub.

 _Now I got your attention_ , he thought. “Relax, Scully, I’m kidding,” he said, briefly reaching out to her forearm and then putting his hands in his pockets. “Nevertheless, the Marshals probably didn’t mention that detail in the papers they gave us, and a husband should know this kind of stuff. I mean, I assume. Don’t you?”

Scully looked at him, squinting dubiously at him. He could almost read her mind loud and clear like Gibson would: _Is this question requiring an answer for Mulder’s sick curiosity or for my fake husband’s?_ But too tired to decide, she replied “Left” anyway.

He nodded, storing the information in a corner of his head. “Left. Okay.”

They looked awkwardly at one another a moment and then Mulder spun around toward the hallway.

“Do you have a preference on either of the two vacant rooms?”

“I, um, I think I’ll take the one with the view of the road if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’d use the couch if it weren’t for you or Gibson.”

She nodded knowingly. She put her hands on her elbows and pushed herself up. “Well, good night then,” she said as she walked past him.

“Good night, Scully,” he replied, looking at her over his shoulder as she rolled her luggage to her bedroom at the very end of the hallway and closed the door behind her without another glance at him.

Mulder checked on Gibson one last time, and then he went to his own room, leaving both their doors opened. He had the room between Gibson’s and Scully’s and he was a light sleeper, but it was just in case.

He slipped off his shoes and collapsed heavily onto the bed, stretching across the mattress as he pulled off his socks one after the other, getting rid of them by shooting a free throw. He lifted his head from the pillow to see if he’d aimed at his shoes successfully and cheered himself a la Bob Costas: “Oh, this is amazing, Doug! Another point for player number 32!” He extended his arm as if to shove the mic to a co-host and changed his voice slightly: “The crowd is going to go into a frenzy at this rate, Bob!”

He bent back down onto the pillow and laced his hands behind his head as he blindly stared up at the ceiling and listened to the sound of silence. He knew he should close his eyes and get some sleep, become lulled by the night and its sound, the soft hum of splashing waves of the nearby ocean, but on nights like these, his mind would race against his better determination as the darkness shrouded him in his own contemplations.

He thought about that enigmatic kid next door whom they’d just been given the responsibility of raising. How long would it take for the FBI to find his parents, assuming they were even alive? Or to find him a foster home? God, he hoped they found his parents. No matter how long it took. But how long could Mulder tolerate this situation before he drove himself or Scully crazy? And how long would _she_ hold her own fort? Mulder was totally unable to answer yet another question: How would things work between them in a 24/7-living-together condition, especially now?

He replayed in his head the conversation from a couple of weeks ago.

_“You’re asking me to make a choice?” Mulder had asked in disbelief._

_“I’m asking you to trust my judgment. To trust me.”_

How dared she? He had every right to be upset, too.

Trying to push these thoughts away, he rubbed his face with his hands and rolled over to his side, trapping his hands underneath his armpit and staring at the dark window. _Close your eyes and go to sleep_ , he commanded himself to no avail.

For the last couple of weeks, things between he and Scully had been harder than they used to be. Their mutual trust had been challenged. There had been tensions. And he hated to admit it, but he knew the reason. It had all begun when Agent Fowley had reappeared in his life and then taken over the X-Files with Spender. Yet, Mulder didn’t understand Scully’s cold demeanor toward her fellow female agent. Not only had Diana been shot once, but she’d been shot a second time— _after a hole in a lung, have yourself a little hole in the abdomen, ’cause why not?_ —and it was obvious that if it weren’t for Diana, the FBI would still be wondering if the blood found in Gibson’s parent’s house belonged to the boy and they’d still be looking for him. But no, _Diana_ had found him, secured and protected him, and she’d taken a second bullet in the process. Scully had no right to be mad at her.

So yeah, things had not been going as well as he’d been accustomed to, but, he mused, with a few little adjustments here and there, he could see things becoming better between them. They _had_ to, because who knew how long they’d be trapped in this new life?


	3. Day One, and Other Awkwardness.

SATURDAY NOVEMBER 14, 1998.

Mulder was unsure when he’d finally drifted into sleep when he propped himself up on his elbows at the thumps of Gibson’s awkward gait on the hardwood floor. He certainly had needed the sleep and felt lucky that he’d managed to doze off if only for a little while, instead of lying awake for hours until the sun rose.

“Did I wake you?” the boy whispered as he stopped in front of Mulder’s room.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Mulder said as he swung his legs across the bed and got to his feet. “We gotta get something for breakfast anyway. I doubt they filled the fridge … assuming we have a fridge.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder in a friendly gesture as he ambled past him. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Gibson said simply.

“Good,” Mulder said, and he crossed the hall to the bathroom while Gibson went down the stairs.

After Mulder had showered, he softly knocked on Scully’s door. Pressing his ear against it, he waited. Then when there was no answer, he quietly eased it open a few inches and thrusted his head inside the room. He smiled softly at the sight of Scully asleep in the middle of the bed, closer to the _right_ side in spite of what she’d stated the night before. Also, while he had lazily and shamelessly slept in the clothes he’d worn the previous day—save for his socks—Scully had taken the time to open her suitcase and put some satin pajamas on. But then again, why was he even surprised?

Mulder sat facing her on the right edge of the bed and gently tickled her shoulder with his fingertips. “Scully,” he whispered.

“Mulder? What’s going on?” she asked, disoriented.

“We’re on Long Island as Mary and Dave Jones, remember?”

She relaxed and rubbed her eyes. “Yes, um, okay, just give me a minute. What time is it?”

“Just before eight. Take your time, I just wanted to let you know that I’m going out to get breakfast with Gibson. We have nothing to eat.”

“Okay,” she said sleepily.

“We’ll be right back.”

Moments later, Scully had traded her silk PJs for a casual pair of jeans and a plain white shirt, and all three of them were now sitting on the small couch that faced the front door, eating breakfast at the too-small coffee table, tightly squeezed against one another, so close that they could hear each other chewing their bagels as if it were their own. Mulder drained his coffee in one long gulp and stood to grab the documents the Marshals had left that rested on the kitchen stove.

“History class,” he said, waving the papers in the air.

He pushed aside the little brown bags on the table and sat in front of Scully and Gibson. One of his legs, too big for the space between the couch and the table, brushed against Scully’s as he started to consider the papers.

“All right, so … David Jones. David Jones was born and raised in California. He studied at the University of Michigan where he earned a Master of Social Work and met his future wife, Mary Jones, née McCole.”

Mulder stopped reading and glanced up at Scully, marveling at her suspiciously looking inside her opened bagel, fingers digging in. He gave her a friendly nudge on the leg with his knee.

“You listening?”

She looked up, perplexed. “Um, yes, Mulder, go on.”

Something in her bagel was obviously intriguing—a hair, maybe?—but he held back his curiosity. “What’s your maiden name?”

“McCole, Mulder. I’m listening,” she replied without looking up again.

He raised a complicit brow at Gibson and went on. “All right. Mary McCole was born and raised in Chicago, and she did her undergrad and medical school. Very bright, she did a residency and was a medical doctor two years ahead of the average age. David was involved with his university’s baseball team while Mary was an active member of an association that educated the community on reproductive health and justice, and promoted pro-choice activism on campus. Yada, yada, yada …” He flipped through the pages. “We’ll get into the details later … Aha, there! After they distinguishably finished their studies, they moved and started working in Chicago. They—”

A knock at the door almost instantly followed by the reverberating doorbell interrupted Mulder’s reading.

He turned around to the entrance, then toward Scully again. In silent understanding and perfect partnership’s coordination, she stood, grabbed the documents from his hands, put them underneath the seat cushion, sat back down on them, and rested a reassuring hand on Gibson’s lap while Mulder walked backward to the door.

He briskly peeked through the peephole, and took a deep breath. “Show time,” he whispered to himself.

“I thought I saw someone driving up here this morning,” a woman in her seventies or so said, slapping the stomach of the man who accompanied her good-humoredly—her long-married husband, Mulder gathered.

“ _I_ was the one who told you I heard a car last night,” the old man objected. “I even thought there were two.”

“Oh, stop it, will you? Why is it you always have to be right about _everything_?” She faced Mulder again and her composure softened immediately. Her smile became genuine and the sound of her voice a lot nicer. She joked: “See how it gets after forty-seven years of marriage?”

Mulder nodded and smiled with consideration.

“Let me start over: Hello, young man, I’m Fay and this is my husband, Mr. George H. Slater,” she said pleasantly as she reached out her hand to him.

“Nice to meet you,” Mulder answered, shaking her hand and then her husband’s. “I’m David. David Jones, and um …” As he turned around, Scully had taken place by his side, and he rested his hand on her shoulder. “This is my wife Mary, and Jason over there isn’t finished eating his breakfast if you’ll excuse him.”

“Oh, of course,” Fay said, waving it off like it was nothing. “I’m sorry, we came empty-handed. We didn’t know what you needed. But we would be delighted to have you for dinner whenever you’re ready. Wouldn’t we, George?”

Her husband nodded in agreement, and Scully said, “It’s very nice of you.”

As Mulder gazed at Scully while she talked, he noticed the shadow of a frown passing over her brow and he returned his attention to the old couple.

Fay couldn’t be taller than 5’2, but she was pulling herself up on her tiptoes, balancing herself with one hand on her husband’s shoulder and trying to peek past Mulder and Scully. Before either of them could continue, Fay exclaimed: “Oh boy, but you seem to be needing _everything_. Why don’t you come along and have lunch with us in a couple of hours?”

Mulder chuckled. “Oh no, we’re fine. Don’t worry, we’re fine here; it’s only temporary. In fact, movers should be here this morning. We’ll have plenty of things to do.”

“One can only see and appreciate how everything looks when they have fewer distractions,” Fay said.

“Exactly. And as for now,” he said, sliding his hand to Scully’s elbow and pulling her gently to him, “we’ve got everything we need.”

Scully smiled uncomfortably and Mulder pulled back a little.

“So? Where are you from?” Fay asked, easing herself back down on her heels.

Mulder carefully stared down at Scully. They actually didn’t know this much about their lives yet.

“Uh, Detroit,” Mulder said, almost sounding like a question, at the same time Scully replied “Chicago.”

“You don’t look too sure,” Fay laughed.

“Oh, yes, we’re sure,” Scully said confidently. “David has just been driving most of yesterday, and we stopped in Detroit to visit some old friends.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Of course, you didn’t. It’s no problem,” Scully said with a friendly smile.

“So, what brings you out here?” Fay asked again.

“But you don’t mean to pry, huh?” George mocked her.

“You know what?” Scully said, resolved to cut a long story short. “When we’re all set, you’ll come over and you’ll know everything there is to know about us.”

“Yes, we’re a little tired today,” Mulder said. “And we need some valuable family time to accustom ourselves to our new lif—house,” he corrected himself instantly, and Scully smiled reluctantly at the elderly couple.

“All right then,” George said. He pulled his wife by the hand, “let’s get going.”

“If you need anything,” Fay called out over her shoulder, “we’re the second house to the left. Bye-bye now Jason!”

“Bye,” Gibson replied, emotionless.

“We’ll remember that.” Scully smiled politely.

As soon as Mulder closed the door, Scully parted from him. She went back to the couch while Mulder pushed aside the long net curtains slightly and watched as the couple walked away slowly, _very_ slowly.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“What is it, now?”

“I wonder from which state our license plate will say we’re from. They’re looking at it as we speak.”

“It’s from here; New York,” Gibson said out of nowhere.

Dumbfounded, Mulder and Scully looked at each other and then Mulder quickly sat back down again at the table. “You can hear them, Gibson?” he asked in awe.

“You know I can read minds.”

“Are they … suspicious about us?” Scully asked, a bit anxious.

“No, you passed. They just find it odd that you said Chicago and Detroit while your plate states you’re from here, that’s all.” He looked at Mulder. “And the woman thought you were cute,” he said matter-of-factly. “She wished she were thirty years younger.”

Mulder wanted to joke that if somehow this marriage didn’t work out, he’d have a plan B, but Scully didn’t even try to make fun of him after Gibson’s comment, so he bit his tongue instead.

***

While they waited for the movers to arrive sometime that morning, Gibson read a comic book on his bed and Scully sat barefoot at one end of the couch, running through the details of their background story. After their encounter with Fay and George, they had read for another half hour or so, and Mulder had gone out for a quick run. He was currently showering and she could smell the scent of his soap and shampoo from the living room: a delightful cocktail of clove, pine, cinnamon and citrus.

 _This is no different from any other assignment you’ve been on_ , she told herself reassuringly. They’d had had this kind of proximity in the past and they still weren’t sharing the same room; nothing had changed. So why was this situation bothering her so much? Aside from the fact that she didn’t know how long it would last? Maybe because _he_ was different. Maybe because while there might have been a physical proximity as they shared the same house, she and Mulder had in fact hardly ever been distant from one another.

But the ugly truth was, she had nothing to say to him; what she had had to say she’d said it already, and he hadn’t seemed to get her point. The lack of trust that Mulder had recently showed hurt her more than she cared to admit. Just a few months ago he had almost kissed her—not to mention he’d come to the end of the world to rescue her—and today it was as if that almost-kiss had never existed, nor had their feelings. Until that very night in his hallway, she had never really considered that either of them could have had deep, intimate feelings for one another—if she were being honest with herself, maybe _she_ had felt it now and again, but him? She would never have bet on it. What they had was an unwavering friendship—well, _unwavering_ until Diana showed up, that was—and a absolute trust. Again, that Mulder had questioned her trust lately was beyond her understanding, and furthermore it was childish. Maybe she’d been on the defensive lately, but his calling their friendship into question had left her mostly confused and lost. And she hated that she’d found herself needing him more than she ever thought possible.

When the sounds coming from the upstairs bathroom stopped, Scully noticed the gurgling noises the heater made as the water warmed in its pipes. This place was so quiet it was almost uncanny. Maybe it was good for Gibson, but she wasn’t used to this silence. She wasn’t used to having nothing to do, to having no monster to go after or truth to uncover, no scientific fact to look after in order to try and back up Mulder’s wild theories. She wasn’t used to being useless.

“OUCH!” she heard Mulder yelp and then a few thuds sounded, perhaps from him jumping on the floor above her.

She waited a second, her face turned upward the ceiling as though she could hear with her eyes, and then she asked, “You okay up there?”

“Yeah, yeah, hit my toe on a stupid plank!”

She waited another moment. “Is it broken? Bleeding? Want me to take a look at it?”

“It’s fine.”

She nodded needlessly and turned her attention back to her reading, but her attention wasn’t really there. This silence was poisonous. Lifeless. She should go shopping, get a stereo and some wine at the very least. But, she reminded herself, before she could do so, she needed to know who she was, lest she bump into another Fay Slater.

Mulder jumped from the back of the couch and landed on the opposite end, startling Scully. She removed her glasses and looked at him as he pulled over his feet the woolen blanket she’d set on the couch to keep her own feet warm.

“Do you mind if we share,” he asked afterward, and she shook her head no, handing him a copy of their background story.

Without paying much attention to her, he started reading. She wondered when they had become so estranged. _Ha! If only I could forget when_. Diana Fowley was when. She gazed at him as he read. “How’s the toe?”

He glanced up at her and she felt his toes brushing her own underneath the blanket as he wiggled them. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

She pushed her glasses back onto her nose and resumed reading, glimpsing up from time to time as they studied their fake past in silence.

As it turned out, David and Mary actually came from New York City. Whoever had written their story had worked with a will to make it as complicated as possible: David had moved from LA to Detroit, to Chicago, to New York, and it wasn’t a lot better for Mary. In the past, David had worked in several law firms as an HR manager. Mary had always been a hospital doctor. A few months back, the Joneses had had a terrible car accident that had resulted in Jason’s head injury. The boy was fine now, but David and Mary had decided to drop everything and escape the hurried craziness of big cities for their son’s well-being. They aspired to a more quiet life, and had decided to put their careers aside for a while in order to attend to their family’s needs. _Family first_ , it was there in black and white.

The movers arrived around ten. They were two guys, Noah and Jacob, and Scully wondered if they were real movers or part of “them”, but of course didn’t ask.

First, they brought the furniture off the truck. Armchairs that matched the couch, dining table, chairs, bookshelves, bedside tables, desks … Sometimes, they weren’t sure where to put the stuff, so they asked Mulder and Scully, wrongly assuming that they, of all people, knew what they were doing.

At one point, Scully noticed Mulder looking outside the kitchen window. She joined him. Sensing her presence, he quickly looked at her; his eyes seemed to reflect her tiresome dedication to their duty.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, her voice hardly above a whisper.

He gazed outside again. “No. I’m just—I’m just wondering how Diana is doing.”

She hoped she managed to hide her incredulity—disappointment? She nodded somewhat knowingly and returned to what they were _really_ assigned to: this mission, this house, and this boy in a room on the upper floor. God, they’d be in for a long treat …

As the unloading continued, several neighbors came by. To welcome the new family in town. To offer them a strong hand. Just to be nosy. Mulder had mentioned that he’d been up and down the dirt road when he’d gone out to get breakfast, and there were only three houses on it, their own included. So whoever these neighbors were, they must come from further in town. Scully also noticed that those people more or less living “nearby” were a little older than she and Mulder were—although Mary and David’s ages had been advanced by a few years to be in accordance with their education and Gibson’s age. She wondered if having old—or older—neighbors was a deliberate choice from the Marshals. She’d never been in the Witness Protection Program herself before of course, but she’d never really asked herself how much of the new life was decided and checked. Like, the age of the neighbors? Had they all been background-checked? Considering the short length of time between the moment Gibson had been found and yesterday when they had arrived here, she decided that that was highly implausible.

A woman called out from outside “Mary! David! Jason!” and before she met her outside, Scully knew who it was.

“Hey again, Fay!” she replied with a conventional smile.

The older woman was holding what appeared to be a pie covered with a bleached dish towel. She had donned a woolen duffle coat, and Scully assumed she was overexcited to offer the pie to them while it was still warm because she didn’t take the time to close her coat and her apron showed underneath.

“What do we have here?” Scully asked.

“Pumpkin and meat pie.”

Scully pinched the bridge of her nose. “You shouldn’t have, Fay,” she said nicely.

“It’s my pleasure, my dear, I figured you wouldn’t have time with all this,” the old woman said, gesturing around and handing the pie over to Scully. “Would you like some fruit for dessert? I’ve got plenty of apples if you’re interested.”

“No, don’t worry, we’ll be just fine.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Don’t hesitate to tell me if you need anything. You can always send Jason; it’s just down the road.”

“This box’s unmarked, ma’am. Where’d you want it?” Noah called as he approached the porch.

“Um, let’s see,” Scully said and went back inside.

“Well, I should get going. I see you’re pretty busy. Enjoy the pie.”

When Noah and Jacob started to carry more and more things upstairs, Gibson moved downstairs. Scully asked him if he was all right, and he simply nodded and went to the porch where there now set a neat patio furniture against the white railing. He crouched with his knees pulled up in a wicker rocking chair, tipped his cap down to cover his forehead, and resumed his reading. Scully glanced at Mulder inquiringly and he went on and sat on the porch’s plank flooring next to the boy, surveying Noah and Jacob as they shuffled back and forth between the house and the truck. Scully stayed inside, telling the men where to put this bookcase or that rug as the furnishings kept rolling in. Each time Noah and Jacob walked in, they brought a good share of sand under their boots which stuck under Scully’s bare feet. She sighed. She put her shoes back on and started sweeping the dust out. Then came boxes. Lots and lots of boxes. Some of them were marked with Mulder or Scully’s handwriting; some “impersonal” personal items they’d been allowed to bring along, mostly clothes. She regretted it, but they hadn’t been allowed to bring things that meant more to them, like photos for example. Too _personal_. Was there yet anything in this assignment that wasn’t remotely personal?

She needed air. She grabbed her jacket and the car keys. Mulder and Gibson were still on the porch when she told them she was going shopping, and she didn’t give them the time to ask her anything. She just went.

It was a mild mid-November day but the wind was cold and biting when she exited the car in the lot of a nearby supermarket. The breeze was the slap on the face she needed to come back to reality. Wisps of her hair blew around her face as she adjusted the collar of her breasted jacket, lifting it up around her neck and rushing inside the supermarket.

She didn’t have a list but remembered Mulder saying something like, “There’s nothing to eat,” so that was a good start. She didn’t know what boys Gibson’s age liked to eat, but on the other hand knew that Mulder would be fine with anything, he’d probably eat crackers or seeds for a meal … She’d just follow her instinct for Gibson. She just wanted her mind to be quiet for a little while. To forget this whole situation. And as she absentmindedly threw tomatoes in her cart, she bumped into a customer. She apologized to the man and started to move away when he called to her.

“You’re … Mary, right? Mary Jones?”

“I’m sorry?”

If her name didn’t sound like someone else’s to her own ears, she’d be rummaging her mind for where and when they had met. But now, she just wondered how people could live like this: bumping into someone they “knew” everywhere they went. With the movers, she had noticed that the word of their arrival had been widely spread, and now people knew them by name. And now this man … Of course the tourist season was over but still, she couldn’t possibly be the only stranger in this shop.

“Hi, I’m Jake. I live across the street from you.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “Haven’t had the chance to stop over yet. I figured you were busy.”

“We were. Thanks for the privacy.” She smiled, and then squinted her eyes, curious. “Is it always like that out here?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know … For example, do you know all the customers in here?”

“Not _all_ of them personally. But, yeah, I know their faces, their names for most of them, and I know they live around here.”

“It’s amazing.”

“What is?” he asked, smiling.

In his early forties, Jake was tall and athletic with blond hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes. He had something of a rebel look too that she couldn’t put a finger on but that reminded her of Ed Jerse, a man she’d have dearly loved to forget but whose memory was indelibly seared into her back and so, too, her mind.

She subconsciously lay her hand on the spot on the small of her back and said, “The proximity. I didn’t know this village was so small.” She instantly regretted what she’d said.

He chuckled. “You decide to move from the City to the End and you didn’t know what to expect?” he asked, incredulous.

“Well, not _this_ small anyway.”

“Okay.” He nodded and smiled again.

How he looked at her, there was something of Mulder, too, in the way he seemed to be trying to read her eyes. Or to tell her something. Flirting maybe, she wondered. She didn’t actually know.

“What is it?” she asked, smiling back at his intense stare.

“No, nothing.” He shook his head. “So, you’re married, right?”

“Correct.”

“With one boy.”

“Correct again. Can people keep a secret out here?” she joked.

“Why? You’ve got something to hide?” He snorted a laughter and she shook her head no. “’Cause if you did, you definitely didn’t pick the right place to hide it, that’s for sure.”

“Ha!”

“Listen, um, I gotta get going or I’ll be late—”

“Yeah, I’ve got to get back too.”

“—but here’s the deal: I’ll stop by and meet your husband later tonight, alright? David, right?”

She smiled. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m no magician, Mary. Probably half the people in town know you, but I do have a magic trick. I’ll tell you tonight.”

“Okay, good.”

“It was nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you too, Jake.”

The rest of the morning was spent emptying more boxes and storing their things in the drawers and shelves of their new furniture. In one of the boxes, Scully found two 16x20 framed photos. She retrieved them cautiously, a soft whimper escaping her mouth.

The first one was a family photo of Mulder, Scully, and Gibson. It was a fake of course but whoever didn’t know it would have been tricked. In the photo, Mulder was sitting on a large brown leather armchair, Scully was sitting at his left side with her back scooted against his chest, and Gibson was on Mulder’s lap on the other side, leaning back against his torso too. Mulder’s arms wrapped over Gibson’s torso and around Scully’s shoulders. All three of them had a white top and a pair of jeans. Obviously, just their heads had replaced the original faces. There was nothing original about it—which was probably a good thing: it didn’t need a closer look—but it was perfect.

The second one was a wedding photo. It was a sort of long distance shot where Mulder and Scully walked hand in hand in a field in a warm, end-afternoon sunlight. His right hand in his pocket, Mulder was wearing a black tux and a light pink tie that matched the color of the roses that Scully held. Scully was slightly lifting up her dress with her left hand that also held the bouquet. Her white dress fit closely to her body until mid-hip and it widened gradually to the hem, the neckline shaping like the top half of a heart right above her breasts. The height difference didn’t seem quite right, but since Scully’s feet were hidden under her dress it could have been explained by the height of her heels.

Was this what it would be like? She reflected—with a painful squeeze of her heart—how good they actually looked together.

“Nice,” Gibson said. “And you do, both of you.”

Scully was taken aback from her contemplation and looked down at him. She then realized that Mulder was staring at the photos too.

“Who does what?” Scully asked as she handed the photos to Mulder so that he could take a look.

“What you’re both wondering: you do,” Gibson replied enigmatically.

After a moment, Mulder put the frames on the dresser by the staircase and when he turned around, he caught Scully staring. She wondered what he was thinking and wished she had Gibson’s ability. He held her gaze a few seconds and returned to emptying another box.

“You two are too loud,” Gibson said, “I’ll go upstairs and read for a while.”

“Too lou—?” Scully trailed off as she understood their actual speechlessness had nothing to do with it. “Oh …” and she turned to Mulder.

“Don’t forget we’re meeting with your principal later this afternoon, kiddo! And the banker,” Mulder called.

“I know,” he answered with a bored tone.

“And I’ll check your bandage and stitches in a little while.”

“Okay,” he replied from the upper floor.

“Too loud …” Mulder repeated in amusement. “We should actually try to be louder, that’d keep our minds from wandering … wherever they’re wandering. And keep Gibson from having to be all awkward about it.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She turned her back to him and went to take another box. “So what were you … what were you thinking that he commented that ‘you do’?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Sure.” She quickly turned back to him, holding up one hand. “Wait, no, I don’t know. I think I might know what you’re thinking.”

“Damn, you too?” He chuckled, but then he noticed there was no smile on her face and he frowned and coughed in his fist. He picked up a box. “Hey, look! It seems like mind power runs in this family.”

This time she smiled. It was a small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

***

At four-thirty, after an uneventful meeting with the East Hampton Middle School’s principal Emily Taylor, Gibson was sitting between his fake parents Mulder and Scully in front of Mr. Rockefeller. “Not related,” fifty-something-year-old Mr. Rockefeller jokingly commented about his surname.

“So, it’s … hold on, let me type this right away while we’re at it.” He pulled the keyboard outof his desk and started to type with a couple of fingers. “60 … South … Shore … Road.” Mr. Rockefeller hit ‘enter’ and looked up from his keyboard, smiling over his glasses. “Do you own this house or are you renting it?”

“Um, we’re renting,” Mulder said.

The banker readjusted his glasses as he looked at them, and it seemed to Mulder he was judgmental. Mr. Rockefeller shook his head, typed something, and clasped his hands together, leaning back in his chair.

“So, what do you do Mr. and Mrs. Jones?”

Mulder and Scully looked at each other. Scully bent forward and gently stroked her hand on his, and he realized he’d been gripping his chair so tightly his knuckles were white. He relaxed, and she leaned back again.

“I’m a medical doctor,” she said. “And my husband is a human resources manager.”

“Okay, good. Very good. Where do you work?”

“Well … We’re taking some time off.”

“So … unemployed,” he said rather coldly, tilting his face down and typing again.

Mulder looked at Scully, and then back to the banker. “Technically, sir, you’re right, but this is temporary.” Gee, he hated this word. “We don’t intend to stay unemployed. In fact my wife could open her office tomorrow if she wanted to.”

Rockefeller looked up at Scully. “Do you intend to?”

“Not right a—”

He rose his hand to silence her. “Unemployed then, I’m sorry.” And he bent down to his keyboard.

“Excuse me, sir,” Gibson asked shyly. Mulder and Scully turned in unison to him. “Can I ask a question?”

“Yes, son?”

“What does your wife do?”

“I’m sorry?” he asked, his tone somewhere between confusion and offense.

“I mean, if you had a wife who took a leave of absence so that she could devote her time to your daughter, would you say she’s unemployed? Would she like that you qualified her occupation as unemployed?”

Mulder and Scully’s gazes darted toward Rockefeller as he stared at the boy, his mouth slightly agape with incredulity and clearly at lost for words.

He coughed discreetly into his fist, his cheeks pink, and looked as if he would rather be anywhere other than where he was as Gibson continued: “My parents had an accident.” He slowly pulled his cap out of his bare skull to expose his scars, and trapped his hands between his legs. “And as you can see, I was injured. They put their lives on hold to take care of me. It doesn’t mean they _want to_ or wouldn’t rather be _anywhere else but here,_ and it doesn’t mean they’re lazy, either.”

Well, they’d had meetings with Skinner, and even meetings with Kersh that had gone less awkward than this one. The banker’s cheeks were red with shame. Gibson covered his head with his cap again and Mulder squeezed his shoulder as he held Scully’s gaze knowingly. They were in this together, his gaze was saying, and they needed to find a way to be trusting partners again, to be friends again, and not let this amazing boy feel guilty for the situation they were in. A small, sad smile graced her lips, and he thought—or perhaps hoped—that he saw a flicker of reassurance in her eyes that they were on the same wavelength. _Together_ , like they’d been for over the past five years.

After Gibson’s brilliant demonstration, Mr. Rockefeller was keener to talk about setting up separate bank accounts, and the remainder of the afternoon was uneventful as they all participated in emptying more boxes and give their house a semblance of a cozy nest. They couldn’t believe how much stuff those guys had brought in, and they understood that that was a part of their cover story, but couldn’t help but hope the situation wouldn’t last. This just wasn’t what they had signed up for when they had joined the FBI.


	4. And the Spooky Award Goes To …

Exiting her bedroom where she’d just gone to grab a book, Scully saw Mulder and Gibson on the boy’s bed. Gibson, under his sheet, and Mulder, sitting on the edge of the bed, were laughing together. It was eight, they had just had dinner, and Gibson was getting ready for bed. Scully glimpsed inside the room, walked past, and leaned back against the wall to listen, not wanting to interrupt them.

“You didn’t think _that_!” Mulder said in an amused and offended voice.

“Okay, you suck.”

“This game is unfair, Gibson. You have no idea how much I would love to have your ability.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Of course you do.” Mulder chuckled. “I always thought that if someone could read my mind, I’d be in serious trouble … I didn’t realize that so would they. And yet here we are. I hope you’re okay in your head there, kid.”

“I know you hate it, being here,” Gibson said. “I wish you could just leave me here or wherever and go back to your lives.”

“I don’t … hate it, Gibson. And neither does Scully. It’s complicated but it has nothing to do with you. Scully and I are … happy to have been chosen to protect you, and it was the best possible option.”

The doorbell rang, and Scully straightened up.

She sighed, wiped her eyes she hadn’t noticed had begun to fill, and remembered. “Oh, shoot!” she whispered. She leaned into Gibson’s doorway. “I forgot to tell you. I bumped into a neighbor this morning at the store and he said he’d stop by tonight. It’s probably him.”

“It’s okay,” Mulder replied. “Good night, Gibson,” he said, giving his shoulder a friendly pat. He leaned forward, and said, “This conversation isn’t over,” and then he stood.

“His name is Jack. No, Jake!” Scully said as Mulder walked past her. “I’ll be right down.”

Mulder checked the peephole and opened the door wide. “You must be Jake,” he said warmly, reaching out his hand.

“And you must be David,” Jake said, shaking his hand. He raised his other hand and showed a six-pack of beer.

“Please, come on in.”

When Scully returned from changing Gibson’s bandages and kissing him goodnight, Mulder and Jake had already engaged in conversation. Jake was sitting in one of the two large armchairs that the movers had brought in to join the formerly lone loveseat where Mulder was sitting. There was plenty of room for her to sit by his side, but instead she took the vacant armchair.

“Jake tells me you actually _bumped_ into him,” Mulder said, chuckling.

“Yes, just like I told you.”

Mulder nodded and sipped at his beer, keeping his gaze on Scully. Then he bent forward and opened a bottle for her.

“Your son’s in bed already?”

“Yes, we’re getting ready for him to go back to school on Monday.” She raised her brows in retrospect. “And it was a long day.”

“Got it! How old is he?”

“Twelve,” Scully said.

“You have any kids yourself?” Mulder asked.

“Who? Me? No! Not that I don’t want to. One day. Have to find the mother first,” he said with a smile, then looked at Scully. He took a swig and pointed at Mulder’s Knicks tee-shirt with his beer. “You play basketball?”

“I used to. In college.”

“In New York?”

“Uh, no, in Michigan. But we lived in New York for a while. What about you, Jake? What do you do?”

“I’m an unemployed tattoo artist at the moment.”

“Really?” Scully asked. She leaned forward a little. “I don’t see any on you.”

“Oh yeah, I have some, just not where everyone can see.”

“Whoa! Please, don’t show us,” Mulder urged, raising his hands and making a disgusted face.

Jake chuckled. “I’ll let your imagination do the job.”

Scully raised a brow in what seemed to be delight and looked at Mulder. She may have found this funny, but Mulder had not. Actually, he hated how all of a sudden she seemed all too interested in joining the conversation. He couldn’t help but remember her making out with Ed Jerse. Where did that tattoo fascination come from? _I’ll let your imagination do the job?_ Jerk! He wanted to punch the guy in the nose.

Jake rolled his left sleeve up to his elbow and revealed a tattoo on the inside of his wrist.

 “Just this one is available for everyone’s curiosity, although it was not my choice to get it in the first place.”

“Not your choice?” Mulder said.

“It’s a barcode?” Scully asked.

“Yes, testifying I was one of the many subjects who were experimented on during a secret government operation.”

Mulder blinked with raised brows, shaking his head slightly, as if he’d heard magic words that the other guy knew he could use on him. “You _what_?”

“Yeah, sounds like science fiction, right?”

Mulder smiled. “Tell me about it,” he said, leaning back in the couch, crossing his arms and making himself comfortable.

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

Mulder heard Scully snort softly. Without looking at her, he pointed in her direction and said confidently to Jake, “Try me.”

“Well, the Montauk Project isn’t really a big secret to anyone out here: mind control, time & space travel, alien technology.”

“We just arrived here, didn’t have the pleasure of being filled in with the details.” _But I’ll sure check them out_.

“It was mostly kids—boys—that had mind control experiments performed on them. I was recruited as a child and trained surreptitiously after school and on weekends the Montauk program, which they liked to call ‘explorations of consciousness’. I underwent this program that used traumatic mind control. I recall being tortured and going through shock treatments. The aim was to reprogram participants to do things they were not able to do prior to the programming. When under mind control, I was able to do whatever I was instructed to do.”

“Like what?” Mulder asked.

“Like … anything. I could lift things as heavy as 1500 pounds. I could materialize objects out of thin air. The older ones went on assassination missions.”

“And you said time travel, too?”

“Yeah, time _and_ space travel. A portal had been made to communicate with other types of life. It was a time tunnel which allowed them to contact the aliens. Using time travel, they went back to 1943 and flying saucers from aliens were sucked into the lab. The aliens demanded a special type of Quartz to get their engine fixed for the flying saucer. But instead, they simply used the machine to get another flying saucer from another planet.”

Mulder heard Scully shift in her chair, and he was sure she’d have laughed at him if he had retold such story. And he had to admit that even if he knew he had a penchant for these kinds of stories getting dropped in his lap, Jake’s story was too good to be true—even to his own ears.

“Have you ever encountered any extraterrestrials?” Mulder asked.

“From what I understand, the Department of the Navy made an agreement with the alien greys to exchange their technologies for human women and children so they could conduct horrific breeding experiments. One of my most disturbing memories is being escorted down a hall in this underground lab and seeing cages of chicken wire fencing containing women and children screaming for help.”

“But have you— _yourself_ —actually seen an alien?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen the four-foot tall ones with large black eyes, and also seven-foot tall reptilian beings in some of my experiences. Some memories are still returning to me, but I try to avoid remembering now.”

Mulder nodded. “Is the project still ongoing?”

“Not that I know,” Jake said. He turned to Scully. “Most people think I made that all up, but I didn’t. I mean, come on, if I wanted to set up a hoax, I’d use just a bit of it, not the whole thing, don’t you think? Problem is there aren’t that many survivors and even less that stayed in the Hamptons, so I’m having a hard time finding people to corroborate my story. But I know what I saw. I know what they did to me.”

“Of course,” Scully said, but Mulder doubted she meant it.

“Heard you were a doctor?”

“I am.”

“Well, then maybe you’ve heard about the fact that we only use less than 10% of our brains? Or about the junk DNA.”

Gibson immediately came to mind, and as Scully looked at Mulder, he knew it came to her as well. She turned back to Jake. “What about it?”

“Eh, nah, forget I said it. I’m … over all this now. But how would I know all this if not from firsthand experience?”

Scully could think of a lot of reasons how, Mulder was sure.

Jake bent forward and opened a second beer. “You know, I want to focus on my future rather than my past. Took me long enough to get the people in this community to forget that I was … different.”

“Can I look at it?” Scully wondered. “Your tattoo?”

“The barcode one? Sure.”

Jake stood and sat next to Mulder on the loveseat. He was now closer to her than Mulder was, and when he leaned on his elbows, his back was to Mulder, who could only imagine him extending his arm to her as she examined it, brushing it with her fingertips maybe.

“How old were you?” Scully asked him.

“When it started, I was seven or eight.”

“How old are you now?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“This doesn’t look thirty years old.”

“Maybe because they didn’t ink me right off. Maybe because the ink was partly alien. Can you have it examined? Like, sampled or, I don’t know, whatever you doctors do.”

“No, I’m just a boring family doctor, really.”

“Nothing boring about that,” Jake said. Mulder took a sip of his beer, studying the back of Jake’s neck. It was bare, no tattoo there. “Do you have a … specific knowledge about tattoos?” Jake asked again.

Apparently, Mulder had become transparent, he mused.

“Me? No, not really. I mean, I have one … but it was a mistake,” Scully said.

“Can I see it?”

Mulder leaned forward on his elbows so he could see Scully. She squinted her eyes at Jake and drifted her gaze to Mulder, then back to Jake. “No, I’d prefer not.”

“What is it?”

“It’s, um, an Ouroboros.”

Jake shook his head.

“A serpent eating its own tail,” she explained.

The conversation went on for a couple of hours while Mulder—and sometimes Scully—avoided certain questions and redirected the conversation toward their guest. Eventually, Mulder not-so-subtly yawned and rushed the end of the evening.

He walked Jake out, closed the door, and returned to Scully as she was unbuckling her shoes. He put both hands on the armrests of her armchair and bent down, towering over her.

He sighed. “What’s wrong?”

Startled and forced back against the armchair, she looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“Wow, really, Scully? You have no clue? The guy was curious, nosy, and clearly hitting on you and you acted as if … as if you were actually interested.”

“I did not,” she objected.

He paused before he said again: “Scully, what you do with your life is obviously your business, but in this particular case …”

“What?” she asked as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

“Like it or not, we’re supposed to be happily married.”

“Who decided the ‘happily’ part?” Scully asked coldly.

Mulder opened his mouth to talk and came up blank.

“Never mind”, she continued bitterly. “I just thought he was … interesting. And I think he interested you too at one point. But—not to worry—I’m not going to cheat on my dear husband, Mulder.” She grabbed her shoes and pushed him off with her palm on his chest so that she could stand. “Not that it would be your business anyway as you yourself put it.”

He raised his hands and let them fall by his sides. “I feel like I did something wrong,” he said at her back when she had reached the bottom of the stairs. He nursed the hurt of an almost childlike sense of abandonment. He sighed and sat at her place in the armchair, and she turned around to him. “Problem is I don’t know what I did. The way you acted toward me tonight, it’s no wonder why Jake was hitting on you: he thinks he has a chance.”

“Mulder, not everything is about you … It was a long day and I’m tired. I’m sure Jake noticed that too.”

“This doesn’t tell what it is you blame me for.”

She gazed back at him and walked back over to him reluctantly. She seemed a tiny bit more relaxed. “I don’t blame you for anything, Mulder,” she said. She leaned down, her hands on the armrests just like he did moments before, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Good night, Mulder.”

He lay his hands over hers to stop her and stared intently into her eyes. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

Eventually she sat on the armrest and heaved a sigh. “I should be the one asking you what’s wrong, Mulder. It seems to me that Dia-Agent Fowley is—maybe—hogging your attention. And she’s getting under my skin,” she added quickly. “You seem … depressed?”

He clasped his hands with hers on her lap. “Tell you the truth, this whole conversation with Jake made me think about my sister, your daughter Emily, Gibson. I felt sorry for them, for all those who’ve been abducted, experimented on, tortured, and whatever the hell else.”

“God, Mulder, I’m sorry.”

“Made me feel sorry for you, too.”

She swallowed hard, and then nodded. “And you blamed yourself for it again, I’m sure.”

He didn’t acknowledge it, but he knew he didn’t need to.

“Let’s not go down that path again; there’s no point. I thought his whole story was too much,” Scully said.

“I don’t know what to think about it.”

“He just has a way with words; he’s enigmatic. Charismatic maybe. He falls into the manipulators category.”

“Manipulator with possible mind powers.”

“His story is too far-fetched. He made Gibson look like an imposter. Jake doesn’t have any powers.”

“And yet you seemed to be … drawn to him.”

She sighed again. “Mulder …”

“I guess I don’t want Mrs. Jones flirting with this guy. And I don’t want her finding out where he hides his tattoos, or examining them, or whatever.”

“Gee, thanks for your trust,” she said with a truly offended tone. “Mulder, just because someone is _married_ doesn’t mean they can’t take a quick look at the menu, or that they’re even hungry at all as a matter of fact. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Is that what you want to do? Look at the menu? Because if it has anything to do with you hurting because of my worrying about Diana—”

Annoyed, she tried to get up but he pulled her back down.

“Hold on, we’re having a real conversation here for once.”

“Mulder, we’ve had this conversation before.”

“We have?”

“Yeah; I am not upset because you worry about her.”

“But you can’t stand that I say her name— _Diana, Diana, Diana_ —and you wanna know if there’s more to it, between she and I.” It was more a statement than a question.

“It’s none of my business, Mulder.”

“There isn’t,” he asserted. “There was—a long time ago—but it ended long before you and I met. Now I just worry is all.” He put a finger underneath her chin and lifted her face to him. “But I’m more anxious about how you feel, whether I hurt you in some way or what the hell is going on between us.”

“I’m okay, Mulder.”

“You’re okay?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“You don’t look okay.”

“But I am.”

He studied her face an instant, nodding, thoughtful, but she didn’t let him see anything. “You sure we’re good?”

She got up, took his hand, and pulled him up with a “Yes. Now can we go to bed?”

He bit his tongue to stop himself from asking if she meant in the same bed and he realized that maybe he was a bit blue, because when did he ever stop speaking his mind?

***

She’d told him to use the bathroom first and had spent the last hour in her room, reading medical magazines she’d found in one of the boxes, trying to relax and get this day out of her system.

When she eventually pushed the bathroom door open, she had not expected to see Mulder brushing his teeth, naked, hair damp, and a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Sorry,” she said as she immediately started to pull back, “I thought you were sleeping.”

He grabbed her hand, stopping her in her tracks. “Hey.” He spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and gently pulled her inside the room. “Can a husband kiss his wife goodnight?” he said with a grin.

“A husband can, Mulder, but we’re not married.”

“Yeah,” he agreed regrettably. “Listen, Scully, I know I’ve been a little harsh with you … and unfair maybe … and, um, things have been a bit tense between you and me since Diana took over our office. And I’m sorry. Really.”

“It’s okay, Mulder,” she said quietly.

She knew this look; she knew that when he looked into her eyes like that, he was trying to tell fact from fiction, and this was not the time for a little chit-chat about friendship and loyalty, so she held his gaze, and raised her brows in an expression that she hoped read: _Convinced?_

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think it is,” he said. “But we have to live under the same roof for an undetermined period of time, and I’m not particularly pleased about this assignment any more than you are, but we have to act like a married couple. I don’t want you being uncomfortable or … I don’t know actually how you feel about all this. How do you feel?”

“Seriously, Mulder? You wanna talk about that now?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I thought a lot about what you said the other night in DC. That it came down to a matter of trust, and, whatever you may think, I hope you know I _do_ trust you … and I hope you trust me, too.”

“I do,” she breathed.

“But you need to understand that … that Diana is my friend, and I’m concerned about her.”

“Mulder, I’m not a little girl. I get it. I do.” _Please, let’s not have this conversation again._

He nodded and searched her eyes again. “Okay.”

She didn’t know if her stoical face was enough to hide her heartache or if he could see her pain, but she sure could see his.

He sighed in defeat. “I know it only takes a few seconds to hurt someone but it can take a long time to repair the damage. I’m not sure what I did. But you’re important to me, Scully. Whatever it is I did, I’m sorry. This … this distance between us is hard to handle.”

“I know,” she said softly, nodding in agreement.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment.

“I don’t want to lose what we have.”

“You won’t,” she asserted in a whisper. A part of her wanted to add, “I don’t want to let that happen either,” but the words got stuck in her throat.

He nodded, smiled softly, and looked at her closely. He squeezed her hands and pulled her closer to him, lacing her hands across his lower back, and then he wrapped his arms around her waist.

“I miss my friend,” he whispered in her hair, gently stroking her back.

She let out a sigh of relief and contentment. “I miss him too.”

They hugged a minute or so, her cheek against his bare chest, and it felt good to have that proximity again. She’d missed the man she knew and trusted more than her life, and thus enveloped in his arms, she felt he was at arm’s reach. No pun intended. But then Mulder bent down slowly, sandwiched her face in his hands and pressed his lips to her forehead. This was what had happened in his hallway all over again and her heart was beating wildly in her chest. She closed her eyes at the sensation and eventually she inhaled deeply and pulled back with her palms on his torso, looking into his eyes.

“Mulder—”

“It’s odd, Scully, this situation we’re in. You know, being husband and wife and never having actually kissed.”

“We’ve kissed plenty of times.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“And again, we’re not really married.”

“Only you, me, and the little mind-reader next door know that.”

He took her hands from his torso, kissed them, and held them against his chest again.

She sighed. “Mulder—”

He interrupted her: “I know …”

“Look, the last time you’ve wanted to kiss me, I was about to quit the FBI: you were just … as lost as you seem to be now.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing.” She sighed, adamant, staring back at him. “Are you done with the bathroom?” She freed her hands from Mulder’s and held the doorknob behind her, pulling the door open.

“Scully?” His voice was quiet and held an undertone she knew all too well, but she wasn’t ready to have more of this conversation. It was too late. She was tired. _He_ was tired. And bad things happened, bad decisions were taken when they acted upon lack of full capacities—especially since one only used 10% of their brain at best, as Jake had reminded them.

She turned her face back to him. “What?” she asked with a slightly irritated sigh.

He looked at her for an instant. “Never mind,” he said and then he went out.

She closed the door and looked at her face in the mirror, taking a deep breath through her nose and closing her eyes. Maybe back then, back when he had wanted to kiss her, he had been so desperate that she was going to leave the FBI that he had just let it happen. He had held her eyes captive for what had seemed to be an eternity, and at that very moment it may have felt to him like it was the right thing to do—regardless of how she’d felt about it. But even now she genuinely didn’t know if she would have wanted to kiss him back if that bee had not interfered. They had never talked about the way they felt about each other. They had never talked about that almost-kiss. She knew she had loved him in more ways than one for a long time. And she also knew he loved her, too, in his own way. Like everything he ever did, in his own way. Disregarding the consequences. And even though she had briefly tasted his lips back then, she still wondered where either of them stood regarding an intimate relationship. Let alone if she wanted it and risk to jeopardize their friendship.

She turned the cold faucet on, filled her palms with the cool water, and splashed it on her face.


	5. A Family among Monsters.

SUNDAY NOVEMBER 15, 1998.

“Where’s Agent Scully?” Gibson asked when Mulder handed him a hot mug of cocoa.

“She wants you to call her Dana. She went for a ride, a tour of the village.”

Mulder had noticed the car was gone before he’d found Scully’s note on the fridge. He sat on the couch and opened the package the Marshals had given them the night they arrived. Gibson sat on the kitchen counter, his chocolate mug between his hands, and swung his legs beneath him as he watched Mulder from across the room.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Our phones, IDs and cash. We should make plans on spending that money actually, like buying books and a chess board. A TV? If I remember correctly, you liked watching cartoons when we first met.”

Gibson shrugged his shoulders and glanced vaguely into his steaming chocolate. Then as if he’d heard a disturbing sound, he lifted his face again. “You’re not supposed to call him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Whoever you want to call to get an update on her.”

Mulder smiled and nodded. “I know, I know, but I need to know.” The boy nodded too. “How does it work? You listening to people’s minds?”

“It’s like I told Agent Scully—Dana—last year; it’s like a radio. Except there’s no power button and it gets messy when there are several stations playing at once. Which is often the case.”

Mulder took one of the two phones, closed the box again, and walked to the boy. He lay his hand on Gibson’s shoulders. “You’re going to be okay?”

“I’m used to it, but sometimes I wish I could just turn it all off.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. Tell you what; I make my phone call, and we go to a deserted place, take a little fresh air, you and me. Whaddya say?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, don’t look so enthusiastic about it.”

Gibson flashed him a grin.

“Better,” Mulder said, pointing a finger at his chest and smiling back. “Finish your hot chocolate, I’ll be right back.”

He excused himself and went upstairs. He had no idea how much distance was enough to keep out of Gibson’s radio-shot, but he could use the privacy. He closed his bedroom door and crossed to the window as he dialed Skinner’s number.

Of course, he got a telling-off—just as Gibson had observed he would—and he learned nothing new. Diana’s condition had not improved; she was still in a coma. He promised Skinner to try not to call him again and hung up the phone.

“Looks like you know me better than I do,” Mulder said when he was back in the living room where Gibson was scanning him. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of a chair and said, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Mulder saved Scully’s new number in his phone and put it in his jacket, leaving hers on the table for her to find when she’d returned, and he put a Knicks cap on Gibson’s head and another one on his own.

When he had gone out to get breakfast and dinner the day before, Mulder had taken little detours to visit their until-further-notice new residency. Montauk was a peaceful haven, trapped between the Block Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean at the eastern end of Long Island. The scenery was nothing but yellow dunes and shades of green and brown with mostly big houses in wide open yards. The place was very quiet at this time of year.

Mulder and Gibson walked slowly and in silence toward the cul-de-sac at the end of the road which opened to narrow railroad tracks that they followed for a while. At the next intersection, they took the regular road again, and after a few more minutes they arrived at a secluded beach.

They sat there on the damp sand, facing the water. Mulder was trying to keep his mind numb. He wanted to not think about anything, to go completely silent for Gibson’s sake. The boy turned his face to him and Mulder returned his gaze a second afterward. Gibson shook his head, no.

“No what?” Mulder asked, all innocent.

“You can’t stop thinking.”

Mulder chuckled. “Ha!” He sat closer to the boy, stretching his arms out behind him and leaning back on them, one of them behind the boy’s back. “Are you challenging me?” he asked playfully.

Gibson smiled sadly.

Mulder looked at him and then closed his eyes.

“Even if you fall asleep you won’t stop it,” Gibson said, still looking at him. “Especially you; you never stop thinking …”

“Shh,” Mulder whispered, his eyes closed, softly smiling.

Mulder concentrated his mind on nothingness, and when he finally managed to do it, he forced his mind to stop thinking about thinking about nothing.

 _Listen to the silence_ , he commanded to himself, and the sound of the ocean, its tiny, insignificant waves lapping the shore came to his ears as loud as a storm, as if he’d deliberately channeled the sound. He heard the flapping of seagulls overhead, the stiff breeze rustling the grass of the dunes behind them. He could even hear clearly his own breathing, as silent, slow, and careful as it was. Next he visualized himself going underwater, lying prone, resting calmly and motionless as if holding his breath was irrelevant to his staying alive, mouth and eyes closed, arms outstretched, completely relaxed a few inches just below the surface. He imagined himself sinking slowly deeper and deeper, delving downward to reach the bottom of the sea, the obscurity, the silence, the calm of the depths of the sea … until eventually he heard Gibson’s choked whisper, “Wow!” Mulder could almost hear him smiling when the boy mumbled he couldn’t believe it.

He opened his eyes and turned his face to Gibson. “Sorry, I lost it.”

“Thanks,” Gibson said genuinely, his voice strangled with the effort to get the words out. “I don’t think I ever … that’s the first time someone ever turned the radio off.”

Mulder smiled at him, touched by the boy’s pure emotion. “Next time, I’ll hold on longer, but you’ll have to stay quiet, too.”

Gibson’s eyes were wet with emotion.

“Come on, it’s too cold to stay seated here. We gotta keep moving.”

Mulder and Gibson started back using the same road they’d taken on their way there, following the beachfront for a few hundred yards before heading to their right. It was the shortest way “home”, the weather was cold, and Mulder didn’t know how much or how long Gibson could actually walk. But as they were about to follow the railroad, they screeched to a halt at the blaring sirens of a police car buzzing at the entrance of Navy Road, the road they’d just left.

The Sheriff’s car dashed in front of their noses and abruptly stopped further away at the very end of the beachfront where the sand disappeared into the rocky estuary leading to the greenery of private yards. Two cars—civilian ones—arrived from other roads and stopped by the Sheriff’s. Mulder and Gibson had halted to watch the cars pass, and Mulder looked down at the boy.

He raised his brows. “Are you at all curious?”

Gibson shrugged his shoulders. Not really, Mulder gathered.

“Do you mind?”

“I guess not.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Let’s go.”

When they were close enough, a young officer walked ahead of them, raising his hand as in a no-trespassing stance. “Sorry, guys,” he said, “closed site.”

“What’s going on?” Mulder asked.

“Nothing, just a dead animal washed up by the sea.”

“A dead animal?” Mulder wondered, looking over the officer’s shoulder. “Why make it a closed site?”

“’Cause it’s a monster,” one of the nosy locals said.

“It’s not a monster, Steve,” the officer retorted in annoyance.

“Right,” Steve breathed and snorted.

“A monster?” Mulder took a step closer to Steve.

“Yeah, they found one a couple of months ago, too. It’s alien, that’s what it is.”

“Really?”

“Go back to your wife, Steve, instead of showing yourself as a complete wacko. You shouldn’t drink so early in the morning. It’s not good for you.”

The Sheriff came back from the animal/monster, which was now covered by a blanket, and extended his hand to Mulder. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Sheriff Paul Hardaway.”

“David Jones. I just arrived here. That’s my son Jason.”

“Oh, you’re the newbies. Welcome to the End.”

“Thanks,” he replied, shaking his hand. “So what is this thing? Dead animal? Or alien?”

The Sheriff chuckled. “Alien, right. Because they’re known to wander around on this planet.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be unheard of.”

The Sheriff smiled. “It wouldn’t?”

Mulder raised his shoulders. “Uh, I’ve read all the issues of Paranoia magazine.” As well as the Lone Gunmen’s, he wanted to add, but wasn’t sure that was completely wise.

“Well, then you probably know more than I do.”

“Want me to take a look at your … beast? Maybe I can help.”

“Nah,” the Sheriff said, pointing a finger behind Mulder. “We’ll get rid of this and send it to whomever can properly study it.”

Mulder turned around to see an ambulance just arriving. Two EMTs pulled out a stretcher, and in no time the creature was secured and evacuated. Mulder shook the Sheriff’s hand, reassuring him one more time that if he ever needed assistance on paranormal matters he’d happily provide, and Mulder and Gibson returned home. To Mulder’s dismay, according to Gibson, the Sheriff wasn’t hiding anything; he genuinely believed the creature to be a dead animal, however hideous it looked.

Their car was parked in the driveway when they arrived home.

“You won’t believe what we saw,” Gibson said as they entered.

Mulder followed Gibson and raised his eyebrows at Scully like a busted kid as he shrugged out of his jacket.

“What did you see?” she asked Gibson.

“A monster-slash-alien,” Gibson said.

“Don’t forget slash dead animal,” Mulder said.

“That’s a joke?”

Mulder pointed a finger at Scully as if she’d made a point. “Could be too.”

Scully turned to Gibson. “Did you identify … whatever it was … as alien?”

“I couldn’t; it was dead.”

“What did it look like?”

“A dead … monster?” Mulder said. “We only got a quick glimpse. No bigger than a coyote, four legs too small to be that of a coyote, with nails honed like blades at the end of … not paws as you’d expect but hands, a long thin tail, a round head with a beak-like mouth filled with sharp teeth—and a relatively small head compared to the rest of the body, bare skinned from white to deep bruised purple. Hairless, bloated, and smelly.”

Scully raised her brows in something between consternation and surprise. “That’s a rather thorough description for just a quick glimpse.”

“You know me. I’m very thorough. Do you think you could take a look at it? It’s stored at the morgue, I think.”

“Of course I can’t take a look at it, Mulder. How would I explain that a medical doctor examined a dead animal?”

“It’s a small community; your service could be seen as a relief. You could mention you have experience in autopsies, too.”

“I’m not going to do that, that will raise suspicion—or at least, attention—neither of which we need.”

He passed next to Scully, rolling his left sleeve up as he headed to the kitchen sink. Scully glanced over at Gibson and grabbed Mulder’s arm, pulling him to a stop and leaning closer to him as she whispered with a patronizing voice: “What are you doing, Mulder?”

“What?” he said all innocent, and resumed crossing to the kitchen. “Nothing. We were there and this police car arrived, and then they closed the site. Admit that it’s odd.”

She followed him. “Can’t you just … not look for trouble while we have to protect Gibson, and pretend we are the average Joe and Jane?”

He finished rolling his other sleeve when he was in front of the sink, and looked outside as he replied, “FYI, there were two other average Joes there; they’re the ones who described this thing as ‘alien’.” He turned to his right where Scully now stood with her hands on the countertop, and he bent a little to whisper in her face, “And I’m not looking for trouble.”

She leaned forward too, staring him in the eyes as she took his cap off of his head, and sighed. “You’re bored, Mulder. You’re looking for anything. Anything out of the ordinary.”

They held each other’s gaze for an instant, their faces inches away, each one filled with conviction, then Mulder broke eye contact, turned on the water and started washing his hands.

“How was your ride?” he countered.

He looked at her; she crossed her arms over her chest. He turned off the water and braced against the sink, facing her as he dried his hands with a dishtowel.

“Okay, let’s do something ordinary and average-Joe-y. I noticed a miniature golf course by the Pond. Want to do that after lunch?”

He threw the dishtowel back on the countertop.

“Come on, Scully, Gibson’s going to school tomorrow; it would do him good. It would do us good. Start acting like a family, a happy family? Our background papers did mention ‘family first’.”

“No, you’re right. That’s a good idea.”

He smiled. “Okay. What do you want to eat? Chinese?”

“Chinese would be good.”

He nodded, laid his hand on her shoulder as he passed her, and called from the foot of the stairs, “Hey Gibson, like Chinese food?”

***

It was a freezing day but still too beautiful to be inside. A lot of people were out; a lot of families, simply walking or biking around. Covered in layers, with Gibson and Mulder wearing their caps, they had walked to the town center, ready to be tested as the Jones family and to offer Gibson a good time.

“Are you saying I can’t aim for the hole?” Mulder said after his third failed attempt.

“I wouldn’t dare assume,” Scully smiled. “Just swing the damn club.”

“You have to be willing to see,” he replied and she raised her eyebrows. “You know you’re a lost cause, G-woman.” She chuckled softly and Mulder looked at Gibson who was sitting next to her on a little wall by the hole. “What do you think?” he asked the boy, seeking male support.

“I don’t know. I’d never seen you play before. I’m sure you can do it though.”

Mulder grinned at Scully. “Someone has faith in me.”

Mulder focused, aimed, and then shot. The little yellow ball went straight into the hole this time. Without a word, Mulder raised his arms above his head in victory as he stood upright. His mouth was curved up and his eyes sparkling when he looked over at Scully and Gibson.

“Good, let’s get moving,” Scully said, standing up along with Gibson.

Gibson wrote Mulder’s number of strokes on the scorecard. Hole number 3 was clear and Gibson positioned himself at the tee mat after giving the card to Mulder. While Mulder told Gibson this one was a par 3, he recognized the Sheriff walking toward them with, he supposed, his daughter.

“It’s you again,” he joked.

“Hey Sheriff,” Mulder said.

He introduced him to Scully, and the law officer quipped about hoping to never have to deal with them other than for running into each other on golf courses or sharing a couple of drinks. Mulder and Scully agreed with that.

“Your turn,” Gibson said to Scully as he came back from the hole. “Did it in three.”

“Good job, Jason,” Mulder said, writing down his score. “Come here and say hi to Sheriff Hardaway’s daughter.”

“Please, call me Paul, everyone calls me Paul. How old are you, Jason?”

“Twelve.”

“Oh great, so you’re probably in the same class as Claire.”

“You’re a single parent?” Mulder asked.

“No, I’m not, my wife works on weekends. Can we play along with you guys for a while?”

“Sure,” Mulder replied warmly.

“Hole in three,” Scully said as she walked back to them. “Try not to embarrass yourself with this one,” she whispered to Mulder with a smile as she took the scorecard from his hand.

“You watch me, honey,” he said, gripping his club firmly and waving it in the air like a baseball bat.

“They seem to get along,” Paul said, tilting his chin to where Gibson and Claire were chatting a little further off. Scully nodded. “So, you’re a doctor, I hear?”

“I am.”

“May I ask what your son is suffering from?”

“He has a muscular dystrophy.”

“Is it seri—”

“Hole in one!” Mulder yelled, thrilled, and saving Scully from having to answer the question. He trotted back to them, cupped the side of her face, and pecked Scully on the cheek. They froze in shared surprise, exchanged a quick look, and he took the card from her.

“Good job,” the Sheriff said.

“Beginner’s luck,” Mulder conceded. As the sheriff walked away to take his place at the start of the hole, Mulder put his hand on Scully’s lower back and whispered, “Sorry about that, I got carried away.”

Hole after hole, they advanced in the game. Sometimes when it was Gibson’s turn, Mulder stayed by his side, asking him questions and getting advice. And then when it was his own turn, he asked the boy to check his position, to show him again, and he mirrored him. He smiled and talked naturally to Gibson, and Scully suddenly remembered their short experience with Emily and how good and easy-going Mulder had been with her, too.

After the ninth and final hole, they all said goodbye. Gibson seemed to have had a good time and was pleased to have met Claire. Scully hoped he was feeling better about having to go to a new school tomorrow. As they walked back home, saying hello every once in a while to unknown people who seemed to know them, an inviting smell hit their nostrils.

“Who’s up for hot cocoa and a waffle?” Scully asked. She looked down at Gibson who smiled softly. “Yeah?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Gibson, you don’t have to be shy with us. We’re here for you. If you want something, feel free to say it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Let’s get inside then; it’s freezing,” Mulder said, draping his arms around the boy’s shoulders.

Just before they got in, a pickup truck parked in front of them. The driver walked around the car and before they could see him, they heard, “Mary! Dave!”

It was subtle, but Scully saw Mulder’s jaw tighten. “Jake, what a surprise! You just can’t help bumping into us,” Mulder cheered, and then turned around to Scully and whispered, “Or maybe just into you?”

“Hey, pal, I’m Jake,” Jake said to Gibson, raising his hand up in a high-five gesture which Gibson slapped. “I was just going to get a coffee to go but, hell, I’ll hang out with you.”

“Of course,” Mulder said reluctantly.

Scully and Gibson sat on opposite sides of a booth while Mulder and Jake went to the counter to order. Scully shifted uncomfortably on her bench while they waited for the men to sit with them. There was indeed something either strange or annoying—maybe both—in Jake’s ability to always be at the exact spot they were. Was it really a coincidence? Was—?

“I think so,” Gibson said, interrupting her thinking.

“You think so what, sweetie?”

“I think it’s a coincidence.”

“You do?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said. He slid his elbow on the table and leaned his head on it, looking in Mulder and Jake’s direction. “Just now he thought it was a good thing he was in the mood for coffee.”

Scully was a little relieved and nodded, looking toward them too.

“Mulder doesn’t like him.” He paused. “He likes you.”

Scully’s eyes widened. She tilted her face back to Gibson.

“Who?” she dared to ask almost in a whisper.

“Mulder. And the other guy, too.”

“Jake?”

“Yeah.”

“He suspects our marriage is not in great shape?”

Gibson looked at Scully as if he was trying to read an underlying message. She stared back at him and relaxed when Gibson brought his attention back to the two men.

“I don’t really know.” He paused and examined Jake. “I don’t think he cares. He thinks it may be hard work to raise a kid like me and, um—” Gibson trailed off.

Scully reached out a hand to the boy and brushed his cheek with her palm.

“Don’t worry, I’ve heard that before with my parents. I don’t care. I know it’s not true.”

“Sorry if I made you think it was, sweetie.”

“You didn’t. I was trying to listen to Jake. He thinks you’re hot and … you may want a break and … ‘step out’ mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” she replied with a smile. “You’re right; he doesn’t care whether our marriage is solid or not.”

She turned her face toward the counter as the men were coming back.

Holding a tray, Mulder slid in on Scully’s bench and Jake sat next to Gibson across from them. “Hot cocoa and chocolate waffles,” he announced, handing a plate and a cup to Gibson. “And a cinnamon tea.”

“Thank you,” Scully said, trying to figure out what the balanced demeanor was between showing Jake she was happily married and not interested in stepping out, and not start something with Mulder that would … complicate things, to say the least. “What are you having?” she asked Mulder.

“Um, macchiato with caramel vodka.”

“No, really?”

“Yes, really. Jake’s advice. Wanna try?” he slid the mug in front of her.

She lifted it to her lips and took a sip. “Not bad,” she admitted.

“Yeah?” Mulder said, wiping some whipped cream off her upper lip with his thumb and licking it.

Scully put the mug back in front of Mulder, then she wiped a napkin over her mouth. Mulder leaned back and stretched his arm to drape it across the back of the bench behind Scully. She scooted closer to him, and in response, Mulder’s hand slid to her shoulder.

“What have you been up to?” Jake asked.

There it was again. Mulder had been right last night: Jake was very inquisitive like they’d been best friends forever.

“You mean since last night?” Mulder asked.

“Yeah.”

“Enjoying a sunny Sunday afternoon with family,” Mulder said.

“Gotcha.”

Do you really? Scully wondered. Her eyes caught Gibson who slowly shook his head no, and she smiled, winking at him.

Jake caught it and asked, “What is it?”

Mulder turned to Scully, too.

Boy, are you rudely curious. “Something between my son and me,” she said, smiling nonetheless.

She looked at Mulder and her hand caught his over her shoulder, and giving it a gentle squeeze was enough to reassure him that it was nothing. She finished her tea as quickly as she could without being too rude or obvious that she didn’t want to spend much more time with Jake. She glanced sideways at Gibson, hoping that he’d get the message too. She was soon reassured that he did when he took two big bites of the waffle. This mode of communication was really convenient, she admitted to herself—and probably to Gibson, too.

She took another sip from Mulder’s mug and put it back down in front of him. “You’d better finish this if you don’t want me to.” Subtle enough.

“Do you want me to get you one?” Jake offered.

“Oh, no, I’m fine.”

A gust of wind swept over them when they walked out the bakery shop minutes later. Scully shivered and tightened the collar of her jacket around her neck. Mulder noticed it and he opened his leather jacket and pulled Scully into a tight hug into it.

“Close your coat, Jason,” he said paternally and he pulled him in his arms, too.

“Do you want a ride back?” Jake asked. “It’s not like I’d be taking a detour.”

Mulder looked down at Scully. “No, we’re going to walk,” she said, folding her arms and snuggling against Mulder’s chest.

“You heard the lady,” Mulder said, smiling.

“Well, then I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Without a doubt,” Scully said.

They watched the pickup as it left the small parking lot. Scully found it to be very comfortable and warm and easy to be thus wrapped against Mulder as he lay his chin above her head and waved a hand at Jake.

She lifted her chin to Mulder. “I think I owe you an apology, Mulder.”

He pulled back a little. “Why?”

“The man is very intrusive.”

“Come on, guys, I’m freezing,” Gibson said.

Mulder and Scully nodded at each other knowingly, and Scully stepped away from the warmth of Mulder’s jacket. As they walked, he rubbed Gibson’s back over his coat to warm him up. When they passed a bookstore, Mulder said he had an idea and disappeared into the store. Scully looked at Gibson in wonder, and Gibson said with a small smile, “Chessboard.” Mulder came back a moment afterward, carrying a game of chess underarm. Gibson thanked him silently with a smile and accepted the gift.

Arriving home some twenty minutes later, Jake was outside by his mailbox.

“Unbelievable,” Mulder whispered.

He softly asked Scully and Gibson to pretend to not see him, which they did, keeping themselves busy by talking to one another about chess strategies.

When they reached their porch, Mulder opened the door and Gibson went in. He was waiting for Scully to do the same but, instead, she spun around and wrapped her arms around him inside his jacket. He embraced her in his arms.

“You were very good with Gibson today,” she said, her face tilted up to look into his eyes.

“I try.”

“I’m going to do something crazy.”

“What’s that?”

“Show this guy across the street we are happily married.”

“How would you do that?” he asked softly, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted with a wry smile. “Do you think us having a little chat like this is enough?”

“It sure is a start.”

“Would it have convinced you?”

“Possibly. Is that the craziest idea you had in mind?”

“I had really nothing in mind, Mulder.” She chuckled softly.

“Can I offer a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Would it look awkward if I kissed you now?”

“To him, you’re my husband; so it certainly wouldn’t.”

“And to you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Come on, Scullz, try to relax and enjoy the ride.”

She laughed, but didn’t have the answer to his question.

“Do you still think I’m lost?”

“Maybe it’s just me.”

Mulder sought out her eyes and nodded. He cupped the side of her neck and bent down to press his lips on her cheek. His hand was slightly cold, but his lips weren’t, and she closed her eyes at the warm feeling of tenderness that washed over her.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s go in, it’s getting really cold.”

He gently pushed her inside without looking back at Jake.

 


	6. Old Habits Die Hard.

MONDAY NOVEMBER 16, 1998.

After three days of coming to the same bakery shop for breakfast, Mulder got to know a little about the owner who greeted him every morning. Her name was Amanda, and she was a rather slim thirty-something woman with pink shoulder-length hair and a jewel in her right nostril. While Amanda prepared his hot drinks and pastries, Mulder took one of the last available bar stools and nodded “good morning” at the lone man sitting next to him.

He was thinking he’d seen this man several times here, too, when the man extended his hand. “Hi. You’re David, aren’t you?” he said. “I see you here every morning, I thought I might as well introduce myself. I’m Tom.”

Mulder swiveled around on his stool, shook the man’s hand and rested his elbow on the bar. “Will I ever get used to feeling like a celebrity of sorts? Hope you’re not with the local press ’cause I don’t give interviews before seven in the morning.”

“Ha-ha! Sorry, man. You’re just the newbie. Who doesn’t like a newbie?”

“Newbie,” Mulder repeated, “that’s what people call me?”

Tom shrugged apologetically.

“Well, that’s better than my other nickname.” Tom tilted his chin in inquiry, and Mulder added, “You don’t wanna know.”

“All right.”

“So, tell me. How much do you know about me or my family?”

“Oh, not much; only what Mrs. Slater tells me.”

“Ha, I suspected our celebrity status came from her.”

“Well, she’s your neighbor, good luck avoiding her.”

“Right.”

“But she’s a nice woman. Born and raised here. I’ve known her all my life.”

Mulder nodded and he took his chance: “Do you know our other neighbor, too? Jake something—can’t remember his last name.”

“Oh yeah, I know him. Jake Gill. Weird guy, huh?”

“Why do you say that?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Every town has its freak.”

“You think he’s a freak?”

“Figure of speech. We were classmates, but we don’t see each other so much anymore.”

“I thought that was an impossible thing to do out here,” Mulder joked.

“Jake doesn’t get out much and I live on the other side of town,” Tom explained.

“So what’s his story? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Which story are you interested in? The local legend or his?”

“There are two stories?”

“Well, you’ll know them both anyway at one point or another, I guess. Ever heard of the Montauk Project?”

“Jake might have mentioned it.”

“The legend goes that the secret project led by the US Government involved kidnapped kids, mind-control experiments, time travel, psychic brainwashing, and aliens. But when Jake claims he’s been a victim of the aforementioned government all the while he himself willingly experimented with all kinds of drugs, yeah, there are two stories.”

“What do you believe? Did he use drugs to escape his ‘reality’ or did he happen to escape reality because he used drugs?”

Tom seemed to think about it. “I believe something happened to him. But I don’t know what, exactly. I know that when he was about twelve, his parents earned a good deal of money, and no one really knew why or how. Rumor has it it was hush money, obviously—because people like a good spine-chilling story. The house you rent is actually his, did you know?”

“No, I didn’t. We rented through a realtor.”

“Yeah, it was his parents.”

“Was? They’re dead?”

“Yeah, they died when Jake was seventeen, if I remember correctly. He’s an only child, so he inherited all his parents’ sudden fortune and estate.”

“What happened to them?”

“A car accident. But that also is unclear … I think.”

“You think?”

“Man, we’re talking more than twenty years back. I don’t really remember.”

“Right. What do you remember?”

“Jake was in the car. I can’t recall whether he was driving, but he claimed that just before the accident, he heard a voice warning him to watch out, but they couldn’t avoid the other car which was driven by a drunk driver. Both his parents and the other driver were killed in the crash. Jake was barely injured.”

“He had, what, like a premonition?”

“That was one of the theories or whatever. I don’t think the accident was ever really explained. With his claims of repeated abductions, Jake was already a strange kid. But after the accident he was even stranger; he became sure that the voice he’d heard was Ivy’s and that she was coming from the future to warn him that the government was trying to kill his family.”

“Who’s Ivy?”

“His girlfriend.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“Had. I guess, I dunno. Anyway. He became paranoid, he started to tattoo weird drawings all over himself, to use more drugs, and his relationship with Ivy suffered from all of that … until he was convinced he had ESP. Extra—”

“Extrasensory perception,” Mulder said.

“Yeah. I think his inner ear had been affected during his crash so no one could really tell what was what, but he was sure he suffered from it. There was no way to prove anything. And he refused to push tests any further—you know, with all the tests he’d allegedly already been through.”

“And this Ivy, she’s still around?”

“It’s been years since I’ve seen her—I hope she’s finally gotten the hell out of here and decided to move on with her life. She wasn’t born here. Arrived when she was fourteen, or fifteen maybe? A couple years younger than Jake and I. Apparently she’d been abducted and tested on, too. And he allegedly helped her escape. My opinion? She liked Jake’s money and was ready to do anything for it, believe and say anything he wanted to hear. Anyway, it’s really a twisted story. Hence, the town’s own conclusion: Jake’s a junkie.”

Mulder nodded. “And what do you know about these secret governmental operations?”

“It fascinated me as a kid. More so than any other conspiracy theory, the Montauk Project felt very real. Admittedly, the idea that ten-year-old boys were being sent to Mars was pretty far-fetched, but the government getting excited about mass hypnosis via radar tower? That seemed like something that was definitely discussed at one point in time, and you could argue that they were successful, albeit in a less sci-fi way. As an adult I realized it’s too huge to be true. It’s bad science-fiction.”

“Yeah, probably,” Mulder lied. “I was at the beach yesterday morning when Sheriff Hardaway pulled a strange creature out of the water. Were there other-worldly monsters too in your bad science-fiction? A guy—Steve—claimed the creature was alien.”

“Yeah, there was a monster in the story, but I wouldn’t rely on anything Steve said; he’s a staple at every bar of the village.”

“So I gathered.”

“But if you want to know more about the Montauk Project, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of resources at the Montauk Library.”

“David!” Amanda called from the opposite side of the bar.

“That’s you,” Tom said after a moment.

“Oh yeah, thanks. I guess I got carried away with your story. It’s a strange one alright,” he said as he raised his hand to Amanda.

“It sure is.”

“Thanks for the input, Tom,” Mulder said as they shook hands again.

“Hey, man, you’re welcome! See you around.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“And if you need anything …”

“Thanks,” Mulder said again and started out. Another question popped in his head and he turned back to Tom. “Oh, and is Jake known to have had a lot of women? Besides this … Ivy?”

“Well, like I said, Jake’s father was crazy rich, so he’s never had a problem catching a girl.”

“I guess money can help.”

“But I’ve never seen him become serious with anyone but Ivy. I mean, they’ve been on-again off-again since forever, you know, but … You worried about your wife?”

“Nah, my wife would never—”

“Never say ‘never’, man. I mean, no offense, but saw her the other day at the store; she’s a beautiful woman. But hey, good for you if you two are a strong fit.”

“Yeah …”

When he was back home, Scully and Gibson weren’t up. Mulder considered bringing them breakfast in bed, but decided it was too early. In every possible meaning. So instead he started to make a list of things they needed. First he could use a laptop to see if he could find more details about their strange neighbor and this Montauk Project. They could also buy a TV and new books for Gibson and Scully. Amanda had told him yesterday that they could find pretty much everything at the outlet stores in Riverhead, which was about an hour drive from Montauk. That could be a nice family trip.

“Family trip to go shopping, Mulder?” Scully asked moments later. “Where’s the fun in that? All we do when we’re on a case is drive; at least I’m glad we don’t have that anymore. And why do you want to bring more stuff here when we’re not even done emptying these damn boxes?”

Dumbfounded, Mulder looked at her without interrupting and hesitated a bit to be sure she was finished. Then he faced Gibson and waited.

“I’d go after school,” the boy said, and Mulder felt he could breathe again.

“Good,” he replied. He gently tapped the boy’s back as he got up to throw his cup away. “I’ll get some cash. I’ll start with the library so we don’t need to stock extra things we can borrow.”

“Shoes,” Scully warned.

Mulder turned around, frowning, and not understanding he took a guess: “Hat?”

“No shoes upstairs,” she explained.

He obediently sat on the first step and untied his shoes, staring at her. He then glanced at Gibson. “When you’re old enough, don’t rush into marriage, kid. It’s a trap. We married way too early, Scully, I’m sorry to say; we should’ve given the idea some serious consideration.”

Scully smiled and threw the cloth towel that was on the table at him, and Mulder caught it.

“I’m open to discussion, as always. You know that.”

“Go get your money and get out of here,” she said pleasantly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied as he threw the towel back to her. She caught it with a smile, and he hopped up the stairs. A couple of seconds later, a “GODDAMN PLANK!” echoed throughout the house.

“LANGUAGE!” Scully shouted as she could hear him jumping on the floor, probably holding his injured foot with both hands.

“We need tools!” he said as he sat on the same step and tied his shoes again.

“Good thing you’re going shopping.”

Mulder’s phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

“Mul—Dave Jones.” He looked up at Scully as he listened and then stood up and walked to her. “She’s right here, hold on a second.” He covered the speaker. “Ms. Taylor. The middle school principal?”

Scully took the phone, and Mulder tried to follow the conversation from his end. He couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but no sign in Scully’s body language or actual language was alarming. She noted something on a sheet of paper and hung up, giving the phone back to him.

“What was it about?”

“She has a doctor friend who wants to meet with me. Her mother just had a heart attack and she’s taking a leave of absence to be by her side; she’ll be looking for someone to take over her office while she’s gone.”

“Good,” Mulder said. “I mean, not the heart attack part, but at least that will keep you occupied.”

“Yeah, I’ll call her right away. Finish your breakfast, Gibson, you don’t want to be late on your first day of school.”

Minutes later, Scully watched Mulder and Gibson wave goodbye as the car slowly moved away. She was about to go back inside when she saw Jake in his yard across the road. He waved at her and she waved back before returning inside. Without knowing why, she locked the front door and leaned against it as she took a second to relax. She didn’t feel like she was in any sort of danger, but she didn’t like that the slightest noise might make her jump while she was in the shower.

“Mulder has made you paranoid,” she whispered to herself as she pushed herself off the door.

She was about to cross to the stairs when a brisk knock at the door kicked her out of her musings. She turned toward it in disbelief that Jake would show up just when he’d seen Mulder and Gibson leave. But she was reassured when Fay’s face appeared through the peephole. She opened the door wide.

“Mrs. Slater!” Scully smiled.

“Fay,” she corrected.

“Fay,” Scully repeated.

Scully looked over Fay’s shoulder as the elderly woman started making small talk about the weather, cooking, family, work … but she couldn’t see where Jake had gone. Did he leave too? Was he done weeding or whatever he’d been doing? Not that she cared one way or another, she was just curious, maybe a little anxious, she couldn’t explain it, and why did she feel like she needed to justify to herself why she wanted to know where he’d disappeared?

“Mary?” Fay called.

“Oh, sorry, you were saying?”

“Dinner? Tonight?”

“Right, dinner, of course, we’d be delighted. Oh no, wait, I don’t know what time Mu—David and Jason will be back. I think they want to go shopping. And they’ll probably be tired. I’m started working today too, as a matter of fact.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“Well, Jason will have to go to bed early. He’s back to school now.”

“We can make it early.”

Scully looked at the woman. There was no avoiding it. Until they agreed to lunch or dinner, Fay would keep coming back to invite them over. May as well say yes to an “early and quick” dinner.

“Sounds good,” Scully said.

“Perfect!”

“We’ll bring wine.”

“Excellent. So, around six?”

“Six it is. Thank you, Fay.”

***

Since they only had one car and Scully’s meeting with the other doctor was just a few minutes’ walk away, they had decided that Mulder would take the car this morning: drive Gibson to school, go shopping, go to the library and “wherever else he had to go,” Scully had added. That was the plan for today, anyway. If Scully’s job required that she move to patients’ houses or respond to any other medical emergency, she would keep the car from then on.

East Hampton Middle School looked altogether traditional and modern: clean red bricks with white shutters on the windows and white imposing columns at the top of the stairs that led to the big entrance doors. Mulder had parked a few feet from the school. He had given Gibson a sheet of paper with both his and Scully’s phone numbers on it, and while the boy had shoved it in his pants pocket, he had reassured him once more he could call—or have the principal call them—if anything happened or he wasn’t comfortable. Everything would be fine, he told Gibson as well as himself. It was a calm village and everyone knew everyone; at least there was some good in that. Mulder gave Gibson an encouraging squeeze on the shoulders, readjusted his cap, and watched the boy go. Only when he was out of sight inside the school did Mulder slide back into the car.

He waited a bit longer, surveying as kids hurried through the doors and making sure Gibson didn’t get out—willingly or not. When the street was empty again, he gave Scully a quick phone call, but she assured him she didn’t need a ride and was already on her way to the medical office. Nevertheless, and just to be on the safe side, Mulder decided to stay available. Instead of taking the hour-long ride to the outlet, he would do some research.

He was pleased to find that the Montauk Library had quite a large archive section. An entire collection, going back to the 1880s, included photographs and slides, artifacts, films, maps, scrapbooks, albums, journals, reports, postcards, programs, guide books, yearbooks, microfilms, telegrams, certificates, minutes, East Hampton Town trustee records, and out of print books of the Hamptons and Montauk. There was even a large selection of audio and video tapes containing interviews with members of Montauk’s early families.

He didn’t need to go all that way back in time—he was more interested in starting around the last few decades—but there were so many documents at hand that he felt a bit disoriented as to where to begin searching.

Once he was properly registered as a member of the Library, he started with a computer.

Typing “the Montauk Project” on the keyboard, a series of three books appeared on the screen. The first one, written in 1992, was entitled _The Montauk Project: Experiments in Time_. Two and three years later came _Montauk Revisited: Adventures in Synchronicity_ and _Pyramids of Montauk: Explorations in Consciousness_ , respectively. All three had been authored by a certain Preston B. Nichols. Some sources reported that Nichols claimed to have worked on the Montauk Project and recalled it only through recovery of repressed memories. Others held that he believed he was periodically abducted to continue his participation against his will. According to what Mulder could find, most treated Nichols’ work as fiction.

According to hundreds of articles, the Montauk Project was an alleged series of secret United States government experiments conducted at Camp Hero in Montauk for the purpose of developing psychological warfare techniques and research in fields such as time travel, teleportation, mind control, and contact with alien life. No less, Mulder thought.

In 1988, a guy named Al Bielek, 57, couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that something had happened to him. He underwent various forms of New Age therapies and was able to uncover repressed memories of having worked on the Montauk Project in the 1970s and ’80s. He ascertained that his memories had been locked away to keep the experiment secret. As his memories came flooding back, he learned that his name wasn’t Al Bielek but Edward Cameron. He recovered that he and his brother Duncan Cameron had worked on another shadowy operation referenced as the Philadelphia Experiment when they were in their mid-20s. The Philadelphia Experiment was real, he said. He claimed that, sometime in the 1940s, Nikola Tesla figured out how to make the U.S.S. Eldridge invisible and, in the process, opened up a time wormhole into the future that sucked in the ship. The Cameron brothers were on board, jumping off the vessel and landing at Montauk’s Camp Hero—on August 12th, 1983.

Mulder found another article related to Nichols’s first book in which the author wrote of his time working at Camp Hero on the secret experiments. Specifically, during the 1970s, he claimed, he’d worked with Bielek on something called the “Montauk Chair”, a piece of furniture that used electromagnetics to amplify psychic powers. Bielek’s brother, Duncan, was found to have psychic powers and became the focus of many of the Montauk Chair experiments. Apparently, Duncan could manifest objects just by thinking about them while in the Montauk Chair. The first experiment was called “The Seeing Eye”. With a lock of a person’s hair or other appropriate object in his hand, Duncan could concentrate on the person and be able to see as if he were seeing through their eyes, hearing through their ears, and feeling through their body. He could see through any other person anywhere on the planet.

Nichols continued to experiment with Duncan, who was such a powerful psychic that no one suspected that he was a man from the distant past inserted into a new body. He tried to harness his adept subject’s powers in the Montauk Chair to conduct mind-control experiments using special radio dishes at Camp Hero.

This was where the other children came in.

In his book, Nichols talked of other boys being brought in and experimented on; some were sent through a portal into the unknown of space-time. In Nichols’ book, these abductees were known as the “Montauk Boys”, and since Nichols and Bielek started speaking about their regained memories, other Long Island men had rediscovered that they were frequently abducted from their homes by Camp Hero scientists who wanted to “break” them psychologically so that they could insert commands into their subconscious.

Mulder found _The Montauk Project: Experiments in Time_ on one of the many shelves in the library, and read an excerpt that reminded him of the conversation he had had with Tom this morning:

“We finally decided we’d had enough of the whole experiment. The contingency program was activated by someone approaching Duncan while he was in the chair and simply whispering ‘The time is now.’ At this moment, he let loose a monster from his subconscious. And the transmitter actually portrayed a hairy monster. It was big, hairy, hungry and nasty. But it didn’t appear underground in the null point. It showed up somewhere on the base. It would eat anything it could find. And it smashed everything in sight. Several different people saw it, but almost everyone described a different beast.”

According to researchers from the Montauk Project, depending on the amount of power Cameron drew from the Chair, he could create permanent objects, limited only by his imagination. Nevertheless Nichols had to smash all of the equipment that powered the Montauk Chair before the beast disappeared back into nothingness. That incident, plus the successful time anchor that was built between August 12th, 1943 and August 12th, 1983, ensured that the project would be shuttered. Employees were then brainwashed and, in 1984, the lower levels of the base were filled in with cement.

Using maps, Mulder could easily spot Camp Hero. It was located in the secluded woods at the very end of Long Island, just before the lighthouse. The place was perfect to house a secret military installation, Mulder had to admit. Not to mention that Montauk was as small as a hamlet with a population of 3,851. In its remote location, the most recognizable piece of the 278-acre military site was the SAGE radar tower, a 120-foot, 70-ton “dish” which was believed to transmit radio signals in the 425 to 450 Megahertz range in order to penetrate human consciousness, making a person susceptible to mind control. If that was the kind of thing you were working on, wouldn’t you want to house your research station somewhere out of the way?

Whether the Montauk Project was fact or fiction, Mulder remembered that in 1995 President Bill Clinton had addressed a public statement in which he had apologized to the survivors and families of those who had been subjects of government-sponsored human experiments, and had ordered his Cabinet to devise a system of relief—including financial compensation.

Mulder was pulled out of his reading with the chiming of his phone.

“Where are you, Mulder?” she said before he could even utter a word.

“I’m, um, at the library. Shit, what time is it?”

“Five to three,” she said as he glanced at his wrist. He let out a sigh of relief. “What are you doing at the library?”

“Uh, doing research,” he said evasively.

“Tell me you’re not looking for an X-File.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, swiveled on his chair, and looked around. He was mostly alone but didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

“Mulder?”

He lowered his voice. “I’m not, Scully. Or I was not. Not initially. But the events Jake talked about last night are well documented and strange all right.”

“Documented how?”

“You know, books, newspaper articles … rumors.”

“If there really was a government conspiracy in this very town, do you think they’d have sent us here, out of all the other places they could have chosen?”

Shocker: Scully wasn’t buying Jake’s story.

“Maybe it’s so secret that the Marshals didn’t know about it,” he replied.

He swiveled on his chair again, faced the wall, and leaned his head against his hand to cut himself off from the rest of the big room he was in.

“As far as government cover-ups go, Scully, the Montauk Project may be one of the most well-guarded secret government projects that ever existed. The Montauk Experiment is basically the Area 51 of New England, and stories about the project’s time travel experiments, use of alien technology, and research into telekinesis have managed to both enthrall and terrify conspiracy theorists since the government shut down the ‘Roswell of the North’s’ experiments in the early ‘80s.”

He paused and waited a moment. He was sure he could go on and on and on for hours, was sure he could spend a good amount of his time digging more deeply into this and sorting out which parts were true and which weren’t.

“Scully? You still there?”

“I heard you,” she said.

Of course she wasn’t as enthused as he was, who was he kidding? “Look, I know you’re not—”

She cut him off and let out an audible sigh. “Mulder …”

“I know, I know, I have no, um—” he lowered his voice even more “—no authority here. I’m just being curious.”

“Mulder, not only do you have no authority, but even if were you known around here as an FBI agent, you don’t run the X-Files anymore.”

As if he could forget that. And the longer they stayed here and the longer Diana remained in a hospital, the closer the decision to permanently shut down the X-Files loomed over them, he was sure.

“Anyway,” Scully said. “Can you come and pick me up so we can go and get Gibson together?”

“Of course. I’ll be right there.”

***

Mulder parked the car at the same spot as he had this morning, and he cut the engine.

“So yeah,” Scully said, “I stayed with Dr. Brenner most of the day. Her office was quite full all the time actually. Patients followed one right after the other barely without a break: a cold, an ankle injury, asthma, and so on. We didn’t have time for lunch.”

He realized he hadn’t stopped to eat either, absorbed as he’d been. “You hungry?”

“No, I grabbed a tuna salad bagel on my way home.”

“So, it’s settled? You gonna take over while she’s gone?”

“Yes, her mom is at the Lenox Hill Hospital in the City; Dr. Brenner left at the beginning of the afternoon and left me with the keys to the office.”

He glanced at her and smiled. “Congratulations, Dr. Jones.”

She nodded. “What about you? Have you been at the library all day?”

He looked over at her again and then grinned. “You know me. If there’s something to find, I’ll find it.”

“That much is true. Why does unusual stuff happen to you with such unusual regularity that you feel so compelled to look into it?”

“Because I’m a dumbass?”

She smiled, and a soft knock on the window announced Gibson at the passenger door, waiting for them to unlock the Chevy.

Gibson had had a good day, too, and had been pleased to recognize Claire among his classmates. To his own account, it had been less difficult than he had first expected. Only once or twice had he not responded immediately when the teacher called Jason or Mr. Jones.

When he parked the car in front of their house, Mulder looked across the street, but Jake wasn’t there for a change.

“He showed up at the office today,” Scully said as they crossed toward their house.

“Who? Jake?”

“Yeah, he had a rash on his hand.”

“The son of a …,” he started. Then he realized Gibson was staring at him and he trailed off. He put the key into the door and opened it.

“It was just a rash.”

“Scully, you can’t be that naive,” he said as he let them enter. “The guy is a stalker—at best. At worst … you don’t wanna know what he could be capable of. He just happens to be wherever you are!”

Scully turned around to face him, just inches away, as he had closed the door. “Do you think this has something to do with Gibson?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. No, it’s probably not about Gibson. He would be more subtle. Which he is not. This is about you.”

They stared at each other in silence and in complete stillness for a moment. Then Scully walked away and put her jacket on the back of the chair and Gibson said he was going to his room to do his homework.

“I’m going to ask Skinner to do a background check,” Mulder said as he pulled his phone out of his jacket.

“You’re not supposed to know his number, Mulder. You’re not supposed to know him. Period. You can’t call him.”

“I already did.”

“You did? When?”

“A couple days ago.”

“Mulder, so he likes me, so what? It doesn’t mean—Wait, two days? About Jake?”

“No,” he said. He paused. “About Diana.”

“That is completely irresponsible, Mulder. We’re here to protect Gibson. What if someone intercepted the call and now knows where we are? We’re not supposed to call Skinner. We’re not supposed to get in touch with him or anyone we knew, especially when we have no legit reason to.”

“I was careful.”

“How could you be caref—” Her voice died away when she realized this conversation was useless: Mulder knew he had done something stupid. At least she hoped. She sighed, calmed herself down, and asked for the sake of politeness and friendship: “How was she?”

“There was no change.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked at him. “You can’t call him again. We can’t take the risk.”

“I know.”

“Mulder, I don’t believe Jake is a threat—”

“You don’t know.”

“—for any of us.”

“That, I definitely don’t know. You’ve been blinded by men before.”

She stared at him and he raised his eyebrow.

“At least one, and it could have ended badly.”

She knew full well whom he was talking about, and it was a cheap move. She had felt stupid for over a lifetime back then, and there was absolutely no need to add at it. If there was something she hated it was when someone felt they had the right to tell her what she could or couldn’t do.

“Well, maybe I’ll do the background check myself. Maybe I’ll find something interesting about Jake.”

“Scully,” he protested apologetically, trying to grab her arm.

“No, you’re right, Mulder, maybe I was blinded by men before.” She took the keys on the table and put her jacket back on.

Mulder sighted. “Where are you going?”

“To pick up dinner.”

The door slammed and echoed throughout the living room. Mulder sat at the dining table, feeling stupid.

“What’s wrong?” the teenage boy said at his back.

Mulder turned around to see Gibson on the stairs. He grabbed the back of his chair and remained twisted around, staring at the boy. “Don’t you already know?” he asked with a smile.

Gibson walked down the two last steps and sat in front of Mulder. “You said something that hurt her.”

“You’re an amazing boy, Gibson.”

“Yeah,” he said with a sad tone, “I wish I were like every other boy.”

“Did you feel special today at school?”

“Beside the fact that I was the new boy?” he smiled. “No.”

Mulder chuckled. “Yeah, I’m Newbie, too. See? Things will settle down soon. Give it some time.”

Gibson nodded.

“I wish we could do more.”

“I’m okay with you.”

“Glad to hear it. Like Scully said the other day, feel free to tell us what’s on your heart or if you want to do something special.”

“Is Jake dangerous?”

Mulder was startled by the sudden change of subject. He slid his chair closer and squeezed his shoulder affectionately. “No, Gibson. He’s not.”

“You know you can’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. At the moment, I just … I worry for Scully.”

He nodded. “Where did she go?”

Mulder tried to reassure the boy that things were fine, but he knew he was walking on a thin line. He had succeeded once in muting his brain shortly, but avoiding one subject happened to be more complicated, for you had to focus on it not to focus on it. Therefore he reoriented the conversation toward Gibson, bringing him back to his first day of school, about his new friend Claire who’d sat next to him in most classes, and the Scully incident was forgotten. For the time being.

Dinner was quiet. Scully purposely avoided Mulder, and he wondered how long she would stay mad at him. He assumed not all the blame was on him; it was also this situation that brought tension, the fact that she could never be quietly alone or call her mother whenever she felt like it. But they were only three days in. Things would not go back to normal tomorrow, and he wished he could find a way to ease the tension. At times, Mulder gazed at Gibson, telling him silently he would have given anything to be in his shoes tonight. Or rather in his mind. At other times, he asked Scully yes or no questions and then looked at Gibson for the answer. He didn’t feel he was using the boy; Gibson smiled at Mulder when he knowingly tricked her and Mulder felt he was bonding with the boy. At least there was that.

When he had finished his plate, Gibson asked to be excused, walked around the table to give them small, shy hugs, and went to bed, leaving Mulder and Scully to their own little realm of discomfort. Scully was the first to stand to clear the table, but Mulder stopped her and took the plates from her hands.

“I’ll take care of that. Go and relax in a bath or make yourself comfortable, Scully.”

“It’ll be faster if I help.”

So he let her, and they put all the dishes away in the machine. Now was not the right time to argue or tell her what to do.

“Want to watch a movie?” he asked when they were done.

“No, I’ll head to bed now, I’m exhausted.”

He nodded and she disappeared up the stairs. There would not be a goodnight kiss tonight, he thought. Before he decided whether he wanted to watch a movie or read or go to bed too, he crossed to the dresser where the two photo frames settled. He picked up the one that had Gibson in it. It made him sad and angry to think that above everything else that Gibson had already gone through he may also be an orphan now. He liked this boy. More and more every day. He liked this woman too. He self-consciously traced the shape of her face with his finger, and put the photo back where it was.

 


	7. Conflicted Feelings over Routine Conspiracies.

FRIDAY NOVEMBER 27, 1998.

The rest of the first week passed, and with great effort, the second passed, too, nice and slow—especially slow, almost unnoticed. Days followed each other in their own accordance, and, little by little, things had gone back to an almost semblance of normalcy between Mulder and Scully. Everything was fine in their little realm of safety and fake family.

Ever since their argument, Scully had not mentioned anything more about “bumping into Jake”, but Mulder suspected that if it was still happening she was keeping it from him, the same way Mulder was trying to restrain himself and avoid the Diana subject. So far, he had succeeded in not calling Skinner again, but had failed in not thinking about her. She was never far away in his mind; the chances for the X-Files to be shut down once and for all were too great, and increasing each day they passed here. In the beginning he’d checked the press, but he hadn’t held much hope that her recovery—or other scenarios he hadn’t wanted to consider—would make it there. He had had the feeling Scully could feel he was thinking about Diana, so he had left the room to avoid another confrontation.

Nevertheless, the more time he spent with Scully, the more he wondered which worried him the most: Diana’s fate or the X-Files. Which even to his own silent admission sounded as horrible as it was. Once or twice, Mulder had tried to engage Scully into looking into the Montauk Project with him, arguing that finding something could at least fuel the X-Files and give their office new relevance and a chance of survival, but for Gibson’s sake, she’d shut him down.

_“Maybe Jake had a near-death experience when his parents were killed in that accident—and then he invented the whole Project story to be a martyr. That in itself would be an X-File, Mulder. NDEs are still seen as supernatural events that some people have at the brink of death,” Scully had commented a few days ago._

_“A near-death experience?” he’d repeated, dubious._

_“That or he’s just a crackhead.”_

Over the course of the past two weeks, Mulder had tried and failed several times to beat Gibson at chess after school. They’d played word cross games. They’d had an awfully long dinner at the Slaters’. Scully had made some changes in the decoration and furniture, trying to make the house more comfortable and welcoming. Scully had taught them how to bake a chocolate cake—that one had been a fun night. Mulder had bought a guitar for himself after he’d heard someone play at Amanda’s bakery, but he hadn’t sounded nearly as good. Most nights, Mulder and Scully just hung out on the couch, watching TV, reading, or talking about their day—hers as a doctor, and his as a ghost writer, a convenient enough cover to avoid questions altogether and justify his time at the library.

During the day, Mulder would sometimes borrow the Slaters’ car and go to the library, or he’d stay home and read books and documents he had gathered about the Montauk Project. The previous day, he had stopped by the Police Precinct to meet Sheriff Hardaway. He had wanted to see if he could get an update on whatever they had found at the beach, but Hardaway had replied that the carcass had been picked up almost immediately by scientists.

Mulder was beginning to feel restless. He didn’t know if there was a connection between the Montauk Project and the dead “monster”; didn’t even know if the Project had any bit of truth. He’d probably read everything there was to read about it—Jake’s name was nowhere associated with it in any of the documents he’d studied, nor were his parents’. Mulder had also looked into their deadly accident, but the investigation, like Tom had said, concluded it had been caused by the drunk driver. Mulder had even talked to Steve, the nosy guy from the beach.

Mulder was bored. He was so bored sitting in the same seat day after day that he had somehow managed to gather incriminating information about everyone he knew in this village. And last week, after a third stubbed toe on the same stupid plank, he had removed it. It had seemed to be just a plank that needed fixing, but Mulder had been so confident he would find something compromising about Jake or his family that he had removed the next plank, and one thing had led to another and soon enough nearly all the floorboards of the hallway were gone. Scully had not been pleased when she’d come home. He was going crazy, he’d realized. Crazy bored.

There was one thing, though, one thing he hadn’t checked out. Yet.

Mulder was in a local store, staring at small models of Maglite when he gave Scully a call. He needed to be sure she’d be at Gibson’s school at four but didn’t want to tell her what he was up to. And after a few deftly asked questions, he was assured that she would be. Therefore, he grabbed a Maglite and a set of batteries, paid for his supplies, and ran to his car. Scully had their car, and he had the Slaters’.

He could do this.

He turned the ignition.

It was three o’clock when he started heading East on NY-27. Soon, the occurrence of houses lessened and gave way to small trees and grass and animal-crossing signs—deer. He passed Deep Hollow Ranch thinking they could take Gibson for a ride if he liked. The trees alongside the highway were bare of leaves, and the guardrail rusty from the proximity to the sea on either sides of this narrow land. The two-way road itself was bleached and marked with darker lines of tar here and there, as if duct tape had been used to fix it. He passed no cars, and no cars came from the opposite direction. After a while, the trees grew bigger, less scattered, and closer to the sides of the road, their branches shadowing over it. He instantly knew he was getting close and he slowed up a little. Then, with no previous indication and no street name, he passed a road on his right.

Mulder looked in his rearview mirror—no one behind—and slammed on the brakes. He backed up the car and veered into the narrow one-lane road. It narrowed again and a sign asked to “Please keep out: entrance driveway only”. A minute later, he was forced to a halt in front of a checkpoint, complete with a nine-foot tall wire fence, a stop barrier, a small security-control booth, and a designated parking area.

The place was empty as he had expected it would be, and he parked the car. He glanced at his watch; it was now three-ten. He looked around again, listened carefully, and when he was convinced he was alone, he strolled to the chain link fence.

It wasn’t that high, he said to himself as he blew hot air into his fists.

Mulder was easily on the other side, and after five minutes of trotting to keep warm, he found the radar tower of the decommissioned base he’d come for. Behind yet another fence—this one no higher than Mulder’s height—advertised with “New York State Park, Area Closed, Trespassers will be prosecuted” and other “Danger, Keep out, Falling Objects” or “Building closed to the public, Area under video surveillance” signs, stood an abandoned and decaying square building topped by the gargantuan, infamous, space-age superweapon SAGE radar. On the ground, grass had taken over the asphalt.

Mulder jumped over the fence; this was a sort of stretching of the legs for the marathon of madness that promised to lie hidden further ahead.

For those who’d have somehow managed to miss all prior signs, the message “Do not enter building, Closed to public” was inked on the exterior of the wall. Mulder looked up and around. The building was a concrete block of cement, the few doors and narrow windows had been sealed a long time ago. Entering this building was reserved for those with the strongest determination, the very same ones who had chosen to ignore all these previous warning signs.

When the federal government had donated the land to the state of New York, they had retained the rights to “everything beneath the surface” and the right to reoccupy the land if made necessary by a matter of national security. This, said the conspiracy theorists, was because the government maintained a secret underground research facility at Montauk Point. They claimed that civilians visiting the park were routinely threatened by armed government agents ordering them not to venture into certain areas of the park; electrical workers were rumored to have installed a power station capable of using enough energy to power a whole city; and every once in a while strange lights or shapes were seen in the skies nearby. Scully would have argued that it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that these conspiracy theorists would hear stories of park rangers ordering tourists to stay on the trails and spin them into tales of government thugs trying to keep concerned citizens from discovering their top-secret experiments. And for once, Mulder would have agreed with her.

But still.

There was no harm in double-checking the facts—or the fiction.

He should have come with a crowbar though, Mulder thought. Nevertheless, he eventually came across a door whose wooden planks initially sealing it had been partly ripped off. He finished the job—no experience was ever waster, however recent—and eased himself inside.

It was dark inside, and the air was bitter and biting with cold and a distant smell of rotten flesh. He imagined how easily animals could get themselves trapped and die in here. He pulled up the collar of his turtleneck to cover his mouth and nose.

He fished his flashlight out of his jacket pocket and switched it on, shining the light across the room. The walls were grey, dirty. There was black graffiti he couldn’t spell out. The floor was covered with sand, dust, and wood and rusted metal pieces of broken furniture. At his back, the wind whistled through the opening to the outside world. And in front of him, a door opened into the next room, bathed in even more darkness.

Carefully watching his feet, he shone his light ahead and prowled forward.

The next room wasn’t actually a door, but a moist anteroom with stairs leading up or down. He went down. Six floors below the surface he went down, and then he took a long dark tunnel no wider than a hallway. Every now and again, distraught noises of the wind—he assumed—came to his ears. There was also the squeaking, chattering, and scurrying sounds of the tiny feet of rats writhing in the darkness. Every sound caused him to turn and aim his light in the direction of the noise. But otherwise, the silence around him was … deafening, and for some reason he thought this was what pain sounded like. That was when his gut told him there was something down here, wherever that was.

After yet another junction, he had the choice between an arched tunnel wide and high enough to be a sewer or a subway line, and a creepy passageway made of brown bricks. The further he advanced, the fewer traces of vandalizing paintings were visible. The pungent scent of pee was gone, too. The ground was earthy. It was damp. Mulder wondered if he was below the surface of the nearby ocean when another staircase seemed to ask him if he wanted to push further down. He was cold to the bones, his socks damp beyond dampness, his clothes stuck to his body like a second layer of skin, his breath steamed as he breathed on, and his body emitted fumes in the light of his Maglite, but, yes, he wanted to push further on. He picked up a chalky piece of rock, drew another X on the wall with a trembling hand, and pointed his flashlight down the stairs.

Wondering how long he’d been walking around, he looked at his watch. Four-fifteen, it told him. How big was this place, he wondered? How far did it spread to? And how far could he go without getting lost or going into hypothermia? This place was furthermore so dark that had there something to see, he could miss it. He wasn’t equipped properly.

He decided to turn back. His light swiveled in the opposite direction and a shadow dashed across the wall. He held his breath, turned his light sideways, and strained to hear.

“Hello?” he ventured.

His voice echoed throughout the gallery for a few seconds. The shadow darted on the wall again and Mulder whirled behind him. This time, he’d heard the sound clearly, footsteps running, heavier than rats’, splashing in the mud, and his hand raced to his belt before he remembered that David Jones, an unemployed RH manager slash ghost writer, was most of the time seen around without a gun at his waist.

“Who’s there?” he repeated. “Identify yourself.”

Nothing.

His voice was still reverberating against the walls when it was met by his howl as a sharp thud struck the back of his head. He winced, and fell down heavily onto the dank earth.

***

“Have you tried his phone?” Gibson asked.

“At least a hundred times,” Scully replied, trying to keep her voice calm.

“Try a hundred and one,” he suggested with a weak smile.

They were sitting in the living room; Gibson in an armchair, both hands resting flat on the armrests, Scully at the edge of the couch. He seemed relaxed, a lot more relaxed than she was. Her legs wiggled nervously against her better determination, and her phone was ready to be answered promptly by any of her white-knuckled fingers. It was after eight, and the last time Scully heard from Mulder was five hours prior.

She dialed the number again.

“Voicemail.” Again.

It wasn’t even ringing. Either he’d turned it off, or the battery was dead, or he was out of service. Something wasn’t right. She looked over at Gibson.

“I know,” he said.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to alarm you.”

“But you’re alarmed. You can’t hide it from me, it’s okay.”

“I know, I am. It’s not like him. I mean, he does stupid things, nothing new there, but he doesn’t keep me in the dark. So to speak.”

Earlier in the evening, she’d gone to the Slaters’ and had received confirmation that Mulder had borrowed their car, but they hadn’t asked where he’d wanted to go. Of course. She’d been to his bedroom and found the books and documents he’d been reading. There had been no surprise there either; Mulder had told her about these Montauk Project theories. Many times. And she’d been her usual self; she’d dismissed them. She was about ninety-five percent sure he’d pushed on in this “investigation”. But where? Had he found a witness? Had things turned south?

“Did he … think about going anywhere?” she said.

Gibson shook his head slowly.

“Of course he didn’t.” _It was Mulder_. “Come on,” she said, getting to her feet, “you must be hungry and I’m gonna go nuts. Let’s drive around and get something to eat.”

They had driven for fifteen minutes in silence—at least, she was wordless—but the old blue Wrangler was nowhere to be seen. Gibson had tried to find Mulder mentally, but hadn’t been able to hear him. Wherever he was, he was too far away for Gibson to channel him. That was at least the best of the worst options.

They were exiting John’s Drive-In with take-out burgers and fries when Scully’s phone rang. She jumped and almost dropped the food.

“Hold this please,” she said, giving Gibson the brown bag and fishing into her pockets for her phone with shaking hands.

“Yes?” Scully said.

“Mary?”

“Uh, yes.”

“It’s Sheriff Paul Hardaway.”

The first thing that hit her mind was “Oh my God” and then she hesitated between two questions: “What happened to him?” and “What did he do?”

Because of the calmness of the Sheriff’s voice, she opted for the latter.

Paul chuckled. “Technically, he did nothing wrong. At least I can’t prove that he did. But one of my officers arrested him and he’s here waiting for you.”

“Arrested him? Why?”

“He was in a no-trespassing zone.”

“Oh …”

“I’ll close my eyes to this, don’t worry. Because I don’t believe your husband to be a troublemaker, and—as I said—I can’t prove that he did anything illegal. But you better come and pick him up. He could use a doctor.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s okay. Come and pick him up.”

“I’ll be right there, Paul, thank you.”

When she arrived at the police precinct, she was greeted by the Sheriff. He rose from his desk and they shook hands.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The state troopers found him in his car, covered with mud and barely conscious. His door was open and he was parked just outside an area which is closed to the public.”

Scully frowned.

“Old military base,” he explained.

She sighed. It all made sense, of course. “Where is he?”

“We put him on a cot in our break room.” He pointed a finger toward a door. “This way.”

“Can you …” She looked at Gibson, then at the Sheriff. “Do you mind giving me a minute?”

“Of course, go ahead, we’ll wait here.”

“Thank you.”

She opened the door and sighed with relief and anger at the sight of him. She switched the lights on and closed the door behind her. She walked toward him. He seemed to be naked—or wearing only boxers. She could see his bare shoulders and his legs from his knees down as he lay on his side under a coarse brown blanket.

She put her foot to the cot and gave it a small tug.

“David,” she called coldly.

No reaction.

She kicked the cot again, harder, and called his real name. This time Mulder jumped. His eyes popped open, a “No!” protestation escaped his mouth, his hands raised in the air and fisted into balls, and he swiftly shifted to his back before falling to the ground head first.

“Easy there, tiger,” she said, raising her hands in peace.

“Oh shit!” He grimaced and his hand flung to the back of his head. “Scully?” he said, frowning, when he realized it was her, and then he used his other hand to press the back of his head.

She turned to the door, then back to him. “To everyone else, it’s Mary, Mulder,” she said as she crossed to him and kneeled by his side. “Let me see that.”

He obediently bent his head. She pushed aside his hair, dirty with earth and blood, and exposed an inch-wide wound. She pulled back, stared into his eyes in question for an instant, and then helped him up. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and she sat next to him.

She didn’t really want to know but she asked anyway because that’s what partners did: “What happened?”

“Can we talk about this later? I don’t feel too comfortable discussing this matter in a police station.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” She stood. “Where are your clothes?”

He looked around. “Hmm.”

She spotted them first. She grabbed them and let them drop to the floor again. They were drenched. She strode to the door.

“Would you have dry clothes by any chance, Paul?” she asked.

“Sure, hold on.”

She leaned against the doorframe and offered Gibson a small, apologetic smile on Mulder’s behalf, and then shot her partner the coldest stare she could pull off.

“There,” the Sheriff said, putting clothes and a plastic sack into her hands. “You can put his things in this.”

“Thank you,” she said nicely. She swiveled to Mulder and threw him the clothes and the bag. “Let’s go.” He nearly caught them and she closed the door to join Gibson and the Sheriff.

While Mulder changed, the Sheriff told Scully he’d been down there in his 20s, there was nothing, and then a few minutes later he said to Mulder: “I like you, man, so I’m not going to forget it happened. But stay out of this goddamn site, okay?”

The hour that followed was one of the most uncomfortable she’d ever experienced, certainly the worst since they’d arrived in Montauk. It had included a silent ride back, and then Mulder and Scully sitting motionless at the kitchen table to watch Gibson eat a most likely cold burger. At least tomorrow was Saturday; Gibson didn’t have to go to school and the medical office would be closed, too.

After five minute of chewing, the boy mumbled a soft, “I’m not all that hungry. I’ll go to bed now,” and before Scully could offer to come and help him up he said he was okay going to bed on his own.

She didn’t press him; she knew that even though neither she nor Mulder had uttered a single word since they’d left the precinct, it must have been hell for him to listen to them rehearse their argument in their heads.

“Scully,” Mulder started from his chair as soon as Gibson was at the top of the stairs.

She whirled around to face him, raising a hand to silence him.

“Oh no! You don’t get to speak first, Mulder. You don’t get to explain anything. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to know what you’ve been up to. I don’t want to know how you got yourself trapped into _this_ because you thought _that_ and one thing led to another and you found yourself in God only knows what impossible situation! I don’t get it, Mulder! I don’t get _any_ of it! We’re here to keep a low profile, to disappear from the surface of the earth into this peaceful community to protect a little boy whose parents—” She trailed off and lowered her voice. “To protect a little boy whose parents might very well be dead, and what do you do instead? You put yourself in danger, you put us in danger. _Him_ , Mulder. When you draw attention to yourself, you draw attention to _him_. You put _him_ into danger. This is completely irresponsible! You’ve done stupid things before, but this … this … this takes the cake!”

She shook her head in disbelief and raised her hands and eyebrows. “Well? Say something!”

“I was under the impression you didn’t want to hear what I had to say.”

“I don’t!”

They stared at each other for an instant. Then she broke eye contact and darted to the kitchen. She opened a cupboard and pulled out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide. She grabbed a clean dish towel on her way back to him and shoved it underarm as she opened the bottle.

Then she stood behind him and pushed his head down. “It’s gonna sting,” she said as she poured the liquid onto his scalp.

“Ouch!” he said, pulling away from her. He turned around, took the towel from her hand and pressed it against his wound. “Take it easy, Scully.”

“It needs cleaning.”

“I’ll take a shower. Does it need stitches, too?”

She looked again. “No. But it’s a close one.”

He nodded, and then he started to remove his sweater.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He put the sweater onto the table and lifted the sleeve of this tee-shirt to his shoulder. “How about this? Does it look like a needle mark to you?”

She bent down again. There was bruising around a red dot. It could be, but it was hard to tell. “I don’t know, Mulder.” She sighed, and tension leached a bit out of her shoulders. She gently and self-consciously stroked the bruise, and he caught her hands. She looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking into her eyes.

She held his gaze, but didn’t answer.

“I really am sorry.”

“I know you are, Mulder,” she said, defeated and trying to calm down. “But it doesn’t mean anything: I know you’ll do something just as crazy again and you’ll say you’re sorry again. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next month, but eventually it will happen again.”

“I—” He trailed off. “Can I at least explain?”

“I’m not sure I want to hear it. Whatever happened to you, whatever you saw or _may_ have uncovered, is it something that can be investigated by a civilian without threatening our cover and risking Gibson’s safety?”

“I don’t-I don’t know.”

“Go take your shower,” she said as she started to move away with the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

He grabbed her hand. “Scully.”

She turned around. “I need some time.”

“Okay, I understand. I know I’ve made a mistake. But don’t cut me off from your world.”

“How could I even do that out here?”

He nodded. “It won’t happen again,” he asserted.

 _Of course it would_. She raised a dubious eyebrow.

“Not here, it won’t happen again. I promise. If I ever want to pursue this, um, this investigation, I’ll talk to you first and let you reason with me.”

She offered him a half smile.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I love you, Scully, and in this life or another, I choose you over everything else. Nothing else matters to me.”

Her breath caught and she tried to swallow the lump that had just formed in her throat. _What has been injected in him?_ she wondered. She squeezed his hand back and pulled him to his feet. “Go shower. Let’s call it a day.”

He stood in front of her and searched her eyes. She wasn’t going to let him see any weakness there, she was not going to make it that easy for him. She was still mad, maybe even madder after his last words, and she was going to let him walk away with it.

“Go,” she said, and she pushed him toward the stairs.

She watched as he ambled up, looking down at her from over the banister, and she waited until she heard the water running. Then she grabbed her coat and got out.


	8. The Art of Clarifying Things Under the Influence.

 

Mulder paced like an untamed fox in a cage. What else could he do? He tried turning on the TV, probably checked every single channel, each and every one of them failing to ease him. He tried reading a book. He tried magazines. Nothing helped. Not even the Montauk Project mysteries. At one point, he even went outside to throw a few balls, but he didn’t aim right and the basketball hit the upstairs window. He was going to wake Gibson or alert the neighbors; there was no point. So he had returned inside.

He tried to remember what had happened to him at the Camp Hero base. How had he returned to his car? The Sheriff had told him he’d been found in his car, but he didn’t remember it. Even his conversation with Paul was blurry. Had someone dragged him out of the tunnels and put him back in his car? The same one who had knocked him out? He frowned. _Why??_ It made no sense. Could Gibson look into his subconscious and give him the missing pieces? No, he had no right to ask him that, and he had to erase the idea out of his head. _Fast_.

He sat on the couch. Held his head between his hands. Sighed. Waited. Stood. Strode to the kitchen. Grabbed a beer. Looked outside. Returned to the couch. Stared into space. Emptied the beer into the sink. And so on and so forth. When he heard a car, he jumped from his seat and peered through the window. It wasn’t Scully. He tried an armchair.

Finally, after three long hours of anguished anxiety where he even considered calling the Sheriff, Mulder heard keys wriggling in the front door’s keyhole and the moonlight came through the open door. He didn’t budge. He remained seated. The living room was plunged into darkness, so neither of them could see each other but he heard her curse when she dropped her purse. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he saw her pick it up.

“And you call me the irresponsible one?” he asked bitterly.

“Jesus, Mulder!” she exclaimed, and dropped the purse a second time.

Mulder stood, walked toward her and switched on the light.

“Huh, Scully? I’m the irresponsible one, right?”

He picked up her purse for her, putting the keys that had fallen nearby into it, and shoved it at her.

“Be thankful you didn’t injure yourself or anyone else, or that you weren’t caught driving under the influence.”

“I didn’t …” She dropped her head to look into her purse and finally found her keys. “Ha!” she exclaimed, victorious, jiggling them. “I didn’t drive.”

“How did you get home?”

“Jake drove me back.”

“You were with Jake?”

“Yup,” she answered with a tone so cheerful he almost couldn’t bear it.

“I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch.”

She snorted a suppressed laugh. “What!?”

“You think this is funny?”

“Hmm, maybe a little …”

He applauded. “Bravo, Scully.” She put the key in the keyhole with great difficulty and he stopped her hand and grabbed her shoulders to push her aside. “Move out.”

She got ahold of the doorknob to steady herself and took a staggering step to her right to block his way. “Mulder, calm down. Nothing happened.”

“I don’t care. That bastard needs to know what a marriage is.”

“We’re not really married.”

“He doesn’t know that.” A horrible feeling washed through him and he grabbed Scully by the shoulders again, forcing himself to stay gentle in spite of the anger building inside him. “Oh, Scully, tell me he doesn’t know that.”

“Of course, he doesn’t. But marriages don’t always work, Mulder. I mean, look at us.”

“Scully, I can’t believe you. You lecture me about how I put the family at risk, and then you put your life in danger. Did you even think once about Gibson during your little selfish night out? Move out of the way,” he said as he firmly pushed her aside from the door.

Before she could say anything, Mulder was outside.

He walked quickly across the street, heading straight to the house where Jake was backing his pickup up the driveway.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mulder barked at him, not slowing his pace an iota and clenching his fists as he came up to Jake. When Mulder got to him, Jake exited his car with his hands up and a chastised voice “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” and without hesitation Mulder punched him hard in the jaw. So hard he had to cover his fist with his other hand and shake his fingers to make sure he hadn’t broken anything.

“Son of a …!” Jake stuttered, bleeding profusely from the lower lip.

Jake tried to hit Mulder back but he was drunk—what a surprise!—so he missed.

Mulder punched him a second time, in the stomach this time, sending Jake careening into the grass where he rolled over onto all fours and gasped for air. Mulder looked down at him with anger and disgust and turned away from him after briefly contemplating how good it would feel to kick him while he was down and make him eat dirt.

“It’s not my fault if you can’t satisfy your wife and she has to turn to guys like me,” Jake called at Mulder’s back.

Mulder ran back to him, grabbed him by his jacket, and hauled him back to his feet in front of him. Then there was the short blast of a siren behind him and he turned around to the officer who had opened his window: “There a problem here?”

“No, we’re fine, officer,” Mulder called, and he turned back to Jake, tapping a finger at his chest. “Don’t push your luck. And stay the hell away from us.”

Back home, Mulder slammed the door behind him and locked it with the key Scully had left in the keyhole. He looked at her. She was doing a poor job of taking her heels off, sitting in the couch, her whole upper body swaying in all directions.

Mulder crossed to the stairs. “Hope you had a good time,” he said without another glance.

He thought about adding “We’ll talk about it in the morning” but he didn’t even see the point of doing that. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. At all. He was too disappointed in her and he just wanted to put that episode behind them and resume their _lives_.

As he was about to put his foot on the first step, one of her heels flew by his ear and fell in front of him, barely missing him. He picked it up, turned around and showed it to her.

“What’s that for?”

“This conversation isn’t over,” she said, standing up—more or less.

“Yes it is.”

She raised her other heel. “No, Mulder, it’s not.”

He walked back to her. “Let me make it easier for you.” He stopped in front of her, at arm’s length. “There. Want to hit me? Aim good this time.” He could see her fist tightening around her shoe as she was deliberating with herself whether to throw it or not. Her eyes were getting wet, too. He was not going to feel sorry for her, but his anger dissipated all the same. “Why did you drink so much? You barely ever drink. What happened to you, Scully?”

“I drank too much is what happened to me.”

“But why?”

“You’re driving me nuts!”

“How? Why? You said it yourself, I’ve always acted irresponsibly. I’m the same as I was yesterday, last month, last year.”

“No, you’re not. Everything was simple and easy before and now … Well, maybe not simple. But you know what I mean!”

“Actually, I don’t. You’re not making a lot of sense.”

“Everything’s been different since that … that … that woman stepped into our lives.”

“Wow. This is because of Diana? Really, Scully? Again?”

“Ugh.”

“Scully—”

She cut him off, raising her hands. “It’s not about … Diana, okay? But how did she ever find Gibson? Ever asked yourself that? How is it that Gibson was found next to his home? How did he get back there? What was Agent Fowley doing there? Oh, how convenient it is that she’s in no condition to answer any of these questions …”

“You need to get over this,” he said coldly. “I told you before: Diana is a friend. And I’ll repeat that again too: nothing but a friend. I don’t see how that matters in any way. What is it to you, Scully?”

“You said you loved me!”

“I did. And I meant it.”

“But you had no right to say that!”

“I had no—?”

“You messed everything up!” she yelled in tears.

“Stop screaming; you’re going to wake Gibson.”

She slumped back onto the couch and dropped her shoulders and her shoe. Then she covered her face with her hands. He looked at her a moment, listening to her quiet sobs and trying to make some sense of her agitation, and then he crossed the small distance between them, squatted down in front of her, gently resting both his hands on her knees.

He’d never seen her overreact like this before. “Why are you so upset?”

“Leave me alone. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“I’m upset, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer. You can do better than this, Scully.”

“There’s no need.”

“Yes. Tell me why.”

“No.”

“Dammit, Scully, tell me!”

“I’m upset because … I’m upset because I love you!” she yelled and Mulder felt his arms fall off. “There. You happy now?” she said straight into his eyes.

Startled, he stared hard at her for a few seconds.

She was so out of his league … He knew she internalized everything but only in his dreams had he imagined this was possible. Alcohol did strange things to people. But then again, _he_ was the behavioral expert, how had he not seen this coming? How was it possible that he had just ignored her and all the signs? Their love was supposed to be fake, they were pretending to be married, and yet here they were …

Before he had the time to process what she had just said and all that it meant, she stood.

Mulder snatched her by the hand and stopped her, getting to his feet at once. He caught her face with both hands and hurriedly bent down to kiss her. All the blood in his body rushed between his legs. She tried to pull back at first, so he forced her mouth to his and he kissed her again, madly, passionately, capturing her mouth as they found themselves gasping—him for air, her for sobs—and drawing her full lower lip into his own.

After a second, she gave herself into him and her tongue slid past his teeth to stroke his. Her arms went around his neck and her fingers tangled in his hair as she softly moaned into his mouth. He responded by kissing her harder, wiping her tears away as he thumbed her cheeks. He caressed her tongue with his, drinking in the sweet taste of her, and then he nipped and bit her lips, letting the wild tension build into a pleasurable pain as she pressed herself eagerly against him. Emotions exploded inside him, making his head spin and his body harden; lust and need vehement like he’d never experienced. And it was just a kiss. He could only imagine how his hardness slowly sliding into her would feel. His gut clenched hard: the wild animation of her tongue, her hands raking him, her fingers gripping his hair, and the wine of her breath reminded him that she wasn’t entirely herself right now. His own mouth tasted of the wine she’d drunk. She was completely trashed. He had to stop himself while he still had that kind of power over his brain, while he was still—albeit barely—at the banks of his own decision-making.

He tenderly slid his hands down her jaw, her neck, quickly went over her breasts, and skidded on her hips, his hands locking in the small of her back as he pulled her closer to him. He had been alone for so long, had striven all these years to hide his desire for this woman, that now the warmth, the passion, her moans of pleasure in his mouth, and the alcoholic vapors from their kiss were intoxicating. He was panting. She was panting. Her tongue restlessly swirled against his and he felt her hand slip under his waistband and down inside his sweatpants. She sucked his tongue deep inside her mouth, and he gasped, catching her wrist to a halt.

He broke the kiss and looked at her, both of them gasping for air.

“Oh, Mulder,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and her eyes still closed. Her white cheeks had grown scarlet. She shifted impatiently against him, her hand at the waistband of his sweatpants trying to force its way down in spite of Mulder holding it still just inches away from what she was after.

“Scully,” he breathed breathlessly. In his dreams he’d always imagined he’d make her feel special, yearned, and desirable. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. But we can’t … not here, not now … not like this.” He had never considered his body and mind would feel like a battlefield.

She closed the gap between their faces again and breathed sensually with her mouth partly opened right against his. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop, Mulder.”

If she’d heard him, she made no point at showing him that she had, and didn’t have the sense of compassion for his struggle. Catching his broad shoulders, she jumped with one impulse and wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles in his lower back, her arms around his neck. Then she kissed him again. He closed his eyes again, and kissed her back. His heart was pounding. He put one of his hands on her butt to hold her still and his other one cupped the back of her head to angle her face and kiss her deeper as they both moaned in each other’s mouth. He wanted her so much. He’d wanted her so much for so long. But it could wait a few more days, he said to himself as he engaged an inward battle with his conscience, and it most definitely should. She started to rub herself up and down against him, pressing her perfect breasts against his chest and hitting his penis every time she’d lower herself down. With the hand that rested on her butt, he hitched her higher.

“Aw, Scully,” he managed to say with a cracking voice before she dived right in a kiss again. He parted from her again. “We’re just one minute shy of doing this on the floor. You need to stop.”

“No. Make it happen.”

“It’s not gonna happen.”

He kissed her as tenderly as he possibly could, considering he was ready to lose control. And when she wouldn’t stop sliding up and down against him, he started to move toward the stairs. He carried her to her bedroom and gently dumped her on her bed. As he hovered over her, ready to pull back, she grabbed his waistband again, and he stopped her. Again.

“Go to sleep, Scully.”

“No. I want you.”

He bent down, took a deep breath, and pressed his lips onto her cheek. “Another day.” She pouted and he bored into her piercing blue eyes. He covered them with his hand and glided it down as if he were closing the shutters. “Get some rest, Scully.” When he withdrew his hand, her eyes were closed. He stilled a moment, his knee on the mattress as he looked down at her, her breathing seeming to even.

He slowly crawled out of her bed and looked at her again in the twilight. He considered undressing her and putting her in her pajamas, but he figured that was a bad idea—if she reopened her eyes when she was only wearing a bra and panties, who knew what might have happened? He closed her door, went into his room, got out of his shirt, slid under the sheet, and then he heard the door.

Scully’s silhouette appeared in his doorway.

“Scully, go back bed,” he whispered, leaning forward and sitting up in his bed.

She ignored him; she closed the door behind her and crossed to him. “Can I just sleep with you? Just to sleep. I feel dizzy and I don’t want to be alone.”

“You feel dizzy, huh? I wonder how that’s possible,” he said with a smile. “Come on,” he continued after a moment, lifting the sheet next to him.

He realized she’d changed into her pajamas when she snuggled under the sheet, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders to pull her against his side. She wound her arm around his bare stomach, resting her head on his shoulder. He pressed his lips to her forehead.

“You sure you’re tired?” she said after a quiet minute he’d spent staring at the ceiling. “We can make it quick.”

“Scully,” he warned.

She chuckled. “Okay, okay, I was just checking.”

He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her, slightly hovering over her. “I’m not tired. But you’re very drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” she objected.

“Even if you weren’t, I don’t have protection.”

“Mulder, come on; we’re married now,” she smiled.

“Yeah,” he smiled back, “and we’ve got a kid sleeping next door.” He retrieved and pushed away her errant hand. “Don’t make me tie your wrists to the headboard, Scully,” he replied, smiling, too.

“Hmm.”

“Scully, can you behave?”

“Do I have to?”

“Either you quit playing with me or you end up lonely in your bed again.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes. I told you before.”

“Prove it.”

“Haven’t I already?”

“I need confirmation.”

“If you had the slightest idea on how hard I’m restraining myself from falling all over you right now, you wouldn’t be asking how much I love you.”

“Oh, stop being Mr. Nice Guy. I don’t want Mr. Nice Guy, I want you.”

“Drop it, Scully, I’m not having sex with you. That’s your punishment for getting drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” she repeated again as if he had offended her.

“Right. It just happened to be your—Jeez,” he snapped: he gripped her hand again with a start before it went into his boxers. He rolled her to her side, her back to him, and then he spooned her, one of his arms underneath her shoulder and the other one draping over her waist. She took his hand from her hip and pulled it up to cup her breast. He sighed, buried his face in the crook of her neck, and held her still against him as his erection twitched behind her butt. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“I can feel you want me.”

“And I thought I was the stubborn of the team. Jesus, Scully, let it go.”

“Can I use my imagination?”

“As long as you can keep it quiet, yes.”

He rested his lips on her shoulder, shushing her again now and then, and eventually they fell asleep.


	9. A Switch Has Been Flicked Somewhere.

SATURDAY NOVEMBER 28, 1998.

Mulder had become accustomed to waking at the sound of Gibson’s particular footsteps on the floorboards, and it never ceased to amaze him how much of an early bird the boy was, always up before him—although today, Mulder couldn’t say he’d had a full night’s sleep.

Scully’s hair was in his face, her fingers twined with his, and her body had barely moved from its original position when they’d collapsed after their emotional evening. He looked down at her and slowly moved out of the bed. She didn’t budge and he immediately missed the warmth of her body.

He met Gibson in the kitchen after he had showered. The boy had helped himself to a bowl of cereal and was eating quietly with cartoons playing in the background.

“How was your night, buddy?”

“Good.”

Mulder sat opposite him and folded his hands on the table. He forced Scully and their night out of his head, and focused on the bowl of cereal.

“You want some?”

“Ha!” Mulder smiled. “No, thanks. Every morning I tell myself I need to buy a coffee maker so that Scully and I can share breakfast with you instead of just staring at you while you eat.”

Gibson nodded.

“About yesterday …” Mulder said.

“I don’t need to know,” Gibson said. “I know enough already.” Mulder smiled thankfully at him. “But you should speak to Dana.”

Mulder nodded. “I will.” _In a neutral place_ , he thought, _like_ _a restaurant_.

“I’m a big boy, Mulder; I don’t need a sitter.”

Mulder squinted his eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you’re thinking about it.”

“I know you can take care of yourself, but I can’t leave you alone. You’re my responsibility. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Sure,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t trust you to take care of yourself. I know you can. It’s the others I’m worried about.”

Gibson shrugged. “Okay.”

“You don’t mind if I take Scully to a restaurant tonight, do you?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Thank you.”

“Who are you going to ask to watch me?”

“I don’t know. What do you think about Fay?”

“She’s a good cook.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, she is.”

He watched him in silence while Gibson ate his cereal. A restaurant would be nice.

***

Scully woke up with a terrible headache. It took her a few moments to realize she wasn’t in her bed but in Mulder’s. She slightly panicked. She lifted the sheet and breathed a sigh of relief. Okay, at least she wasn’t naked. She remembered going out to a bar and drinking—a lot. She thought she remembered Mulder kissing her. Did they … do more than kissing? No, surely she’d remember _that_. Oh, her head hurt. Like hell. How did she end up in Mulder’s bed? Did she put her PJs on by herself? She scanned the room, looking for clues, the questions in her mind making her head spin. Maybe it was the wine, too.

On the nightstand, there was a glass of water and a note from Mulder:

_“Good morning G-woman. Don’t worry if you slept late, that’s what Saturdays are for. Have an Advil and then you have breakfast waiting for you downstairs. I went to the park to hit a few balls with Superboy. Took your keys. We’ll get the Chevy on our way back. Love, M.”_

She took the pill that rested next to the glass and swallowed it with the water, absently looking at Mulder’s digital clock: 11:21. She couldn’t tell if she wanted breakfast, lunch, or to throw up.

She got up, took a long shower, and heated up some coffee in the microwave. When it dinged, Mulder and Gibson walked through the door. Mulder was holding a box with the photo of a coffee maker on it, and Gibson held a bat and a glove. They were laughing.

“Yay, she’s up!” Mulder cheered, shrugging himself out of his jacket.

“Hi, Dana,” Gibson said, still chuckling.

“Hi, sweetie,” she replied, bracing her butt against the counter and wrapping her hands around her cup for comfort. “What are you laughing about?” she asked, avoiding Mulder’s eyes.

“Mulder let me drive,” the boy said proudly as he put his jacket on the back of a chair.

Her eyes widened and drifted to Mulder. “You did what?”

“Only on our street. It was empty,” Mulder said, walking toward her with the box in his hands.

“Mulder, he’s twelve,” she said with a low and reproachful voice when Mulder was by her side.

He put the package next to the microwave, commenting “French press,” and sat on the countertop next to her, crossing his ankles and his hands. “It’s okay. My dad did the same thing with me when I was about Gibson’s age.”

“That’s your excuse?”

He chuckled. “Yes.” He looked at her, smiling, and then he bent down a little. “How are you feeling?”

She put her cup next to her and turned to him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not sure. I have a headache, that much I know. But I—” She lowered her voice. “What happened last night? Why was I in your bed?”

His smile widened and he briefly looked at Gibson who had settled on the loveseat and turned on the TV.

“I told you you’d thank me one day.”

She frowned.

“Nothing happened, Scully,” he said reassuringly. “I mean, yes, you kissed me and I kissed you back, but there was nothing beyond that. You were too drunk for that.”

She covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God, Mulder, I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to feel sorry for. Well, I mean, of course you were all over my body like you’d been possessed by a sexy praying mantis ready to devour her partner after sex or something, but hey! it’s not like I don’t specialize in paranormal activities, right?”

“Oh my God …” she chuckled.

“Hey! Shh. Really, Scully. Don’t worry. I was a perfect gentleman.” She looked up at him, searching his eyes with pleading eyes. “Unlike you.”

She smiled. “I wasn’t a perfect gentleman?”

“Nah, not really,” he said, narrowing his eyes, his bottom lip pushed out in a mocking pout.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I am absolutely _not_ sorry. It was a great kiss. If I’m sorry for anything, it’s that you don’t remember it.”

“I remember kissing you,” she said softly.

They stared at each other an instant until she averted her eyes. She caught sight of her cup and was about to take it when Mulder grabbed her hand and their eyes met again.

“Gibson’s hungry. Want to go out with us? I promise it’ll be water and iced tea only on the table.”

She nodded and smiled. Something had changed in his demeanor overnight. Whatever had happened, Mulder now seemed somewhat freed and relaxed. Then she remembered. What he’d done, and why she’d gone out to drink herself out of her head. She squinted her eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“How’s your head?”

He straightened up when he understood what she was talking about, and reached up to feel the back of his head.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna need a new baseball cap though; I must have lost mine when I fell.”

She closed the gap between them to see for herself, and he leaned forward a little over his lap. It wasn’t bleeding, and it was clean. She had never asked him what had happened to him, and she regretted that now. She’d accused him of being irresponsible and selfish, but she had proved she wasn’t any better, not a better foster parent or a poster friend.

“It’s okay, Scully,” he said.

She released his head and looked at him. “And your shoulder?”

He cupped it and said it was fine too.

“Can I see for myself?”

He obediently removed his sweater and she pushed up his tee-shirt sleeve. It was just as she remembered it had looked the previous night. She brushed her palm over it and gazed at him.

She sighed. “Tell me what happened?”

He took her hands in his and gently pulled her to stand between his legs.

“I went to the decommissioned military base. I was looking for machines, documents, I don’t know, anything suspicious that would indicate that this, um, this Montauk Project was real.”

“But you didn’t find anything,” she said, more a statement than a question.

“No. No, I didn’t. The place looked like shit, but there wasn’t a single sheet of paper, no evidence of anything. I walked through endless tunnels in the dark and was ready to drop it after about an hour or two. I was afraid I’d get lost if I kept going. But when I turned around, I heard a sound and I saw something.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know. All I saw was a shadow, like someone running past me. It sounded like someone running anyway.”

“Someone had followed you?”

“I didn’t think so, but it’s possible. I called out to them, but they never replied. And then something heavy smacked the back of my head. I think I passed out almost instantly.”

“So?” She frowned, wanting to make sure she understood correctly. “Someone attacked you from behind and then left you for dead?”

He nodded.

“And then what?”

“Then I don’t know. I was back in the car somehow—although I have no memory of exiting the tunnels—and I think I heard officers talking to me.”

“Those were the state troopers.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Next thing I knew, we were at the police station.”

“You don’t remember who struck you or when?”

He gave his head a little shake.

She lay her palm on his shoulder again. “I need to do some blood work on you.”

“Why is it bruised?”

“It’s not uncommon. There are many reasons why an injection site might develop a bruise, starting by simply hitting a blood vessel.”

“So it doesn't worry you?”

“No, not as much as what you were injected with.”

They stared at each other in contemplation an instant, their silence only disturbed by the distant, cheerful voices of Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny.

“Is that the whole story?” she asked.

“Yes.” He searched her eyes, and sighed. “Who said it was easier to ask for forgiveness rather than permission?”

“Oh, Mulder,” she chuckled and then sighed, too. “I’m not one to talk, I still have a headache from last night, and I can’t say my hands are completely clean either.”

He chuckled, and pulled her into his arms. “They are,” he said. “It was all because of me.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her cheek against the warmth of his chest, the smell of freshly laundered clothes in her nose. He encircled her with his arms, squeezed her a fraction tighter and then gently rubbed her shoulders. “We’ll sort things out. In the meantime, can you drop me back off at the site so I can return the Slaters’ car? You’d hate it if I asked Gibson to take me.”

She snorted a laughter. “Yeah.”

“And you and I are going out tonight. I’m taking you to dinner, if it’s okay with you.”

She pulled back and looked up at him. “What, like a date?”

“Not a _date_ , date. You know, to try to … reopen the lines of communication.”

“And what about Gibson?”

“His line of communication is pretty good.”

“Mulder …”

“Fay will watch him. She’s a retired nurse, remember? He’ll be in good hands.”

“You’ve already asked her,” she realized.

He smiled. “She’s overjoyed.”

“Mulder, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.”

“Scully, one evening. We’ve been going around the clock like this for two weeks. We deserve a break. There are things I need to apologize for, and I need you to know that you’re the most important person in my life.”

“I know all that, Mulder.”

“I have reason to believe you’ve doubted that lately. It’s out of my hands now anyway; Fay won’t take no for an answer.”

She chuckled, and then her eyes drifted to his mouth and quickly traced the outline of his bottom lip, which caused a fluttering in her stomach. She frowned at the sensation.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m not … sure … It’s like … I have this weird feeling … How many times did you have to say no to me last night, Mulder?”

“Ha-ha! Many … but I’d launch a campaign for more if we were alone right now. Do you remember?”

“No, just an overall impression.”

She searched his eyes again, but couldn’t find anything t but the gentleness of this man she’d always so affectionately loved. She leaned into his chest again, and he hugged her back, his embrace bringing back a long forgotten familiarity she’d missed more than she cared to admit, the secure attachment of consistent love and patience soothing her. Her friend, the one she knew, trusted, and loved, was back. Not just a friend, she realized, a part of her soul, too. Of course she was addicted to him; he was her emotional morphine, her own little idiosyncrasy. How could she blame him for his little field trip? This was how he worked and she knew it, whether she liked it or not. Regardless, and even though everything from last night was still very blurry, she felt safe now, like she’d always felt when he was nearby, and however long this situation might last, she felt their life. She felt her body sag and her muscles loosen, her headache was a memory. Finally, she was home.

He brushed his hand over the back of her head. “So? Lunch first?”

“Lunch,” she agreed.

An hour later, Mulder was sitting in a hospital chair in Dr. Brenner’s empty office, Scully was on a rolling stool, tightening an elastic band around Mulder’s arm, and Gibson was reading in the waiting room.

“Did I ever tell you I loathe needles, Scully?” he said, staring at the movements of her hands.

Scully knotted the band and looked at him, offering him a smile. She took a cotton swab from the small metal table by his chair and soaked it with hydrogen peroxide. He inhaled deeply when she rubbed it on the sensitive spot on the inside of his elbow.

“I think it goes back to one time Sam and I had to take Franz Fur-dinand—our hamster—to the vet and he pulled out a huge—”

He trailed off when she stilled her hands and bit her upper lip, struggling not to laugh, and looked at him.

“You’ll get a candy when we’re done,” she said, patting his knee encouragingly. “Clench your fist.”

He obeyed. “It’s a true story,” he said defensively. “And then there’s that one time when we used to—”

“Mulder?”

“Hmm?”

“It will be fine.”

“Okay,” he said, and straightened up in his chair, clasping his hands between his legs like a good kid.

She patiently took his hand again and let his arm drop back onto the armrest. “Stop moving. And relax.”

“It’s beyond my control.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I think whatever it was, it’s out of my system now, doc. Seriously, I feel fine; it was probably just to put me to sleep and drag me out of the tunnels.”

“You never mentioned that to me.”

“Because I don’t know for sure.”

She probed his skin, making the vein roll under her fingers, and he clenched his jaw.

Keeping her index finger on the vein, she looked at him. “Then let’s rule out anything dangerous,” she said, picking up the needle from the metal tray.

Mulder looked away at the wall.

He was a little pale, she realized not without a little amusement. “Want me to pull a penny from behind your ear, Mulder?”

“If you tell me beforehand, what’s the use?” he said, facing the wall. “Do your horrible deed, doc.”

She smiled. “Hold still, and take a deep breath. You won’t feel anything.”

He held still and took a deep breath, and she inserted the needle into the vein. Her actions were precise, deliberate, purposeful. After a few seconds, she unplugged the blood-filled vial and removed the needle, pressed a gauze compress with her thumb onto the crook of his elbow, and folded his arm, wrapping his hand with hers.

He turned back to her.

“You didn’t faint; congratulations. I was almost expecting I’d need to give you mouth to mouth.”

 _If I’d known that was a possibility, I wouldn’t have worked that hard at not fainting_ , he thought. He smiled good-naturedly and she looked away, putting the vial into an envelope. She’d leave it in the fridge over the weekend and ask her assistant to bring it to the lab on Monday. When she was ready to stand, she put one hand on her knee and the other on his.

“Come on, lunch is on me.”

***

After lunch, Mulder, Scully, and Gibson headed East, using the same freeway Mulder had taken the previous day. The Wrangler was where Mulder had parked it. Mulder climbed inside and rolled his window down, calling out to Scully who was waiting in the Chevy, making sure Mulder’s car would start—perhaps making sure he wouldn’t wander back into the base’s basements, too.

“Let’s push on to the lighthouse, it shouldn’t be that far out,” Mulder suggested.

When they parked both cars on the deserted lot five minutes later, it was beginning to snow and it was still only four-thirty but they were enjoying the last few minutes of daylight. They walked up the pathway on a small grassy hill leading to the lighthouse and its adjoining two-story dark-brownish cottage—it was a museum actually, but it was closed at the moment—and looked up at the lamp which had started to spin as the sun was slowly setting on the horizon.

Drawn by the sound so familiar to her ears, Scully strolled to the edge of the cliff. The breeze whipped her hair around her back and she buried her hands deep in her pockets, facing the ocean and shielding her neck with her shoulders. Mulder looked down at Gibson and wordlessly invited him to follow with a little jolt of his chin. She turned her face to him when they’d joined her. He smiled at her, blinked a few snowflakes out of his eyes, and looked across as the last rays of the sun were swallowed by the vast ocean. Fifty feet below them, gentle waves came licked at a set of terraces in the gullies of the cliff which protected the bluff toe from erosion. Mulder noticed a bunker on the beach. The military, Camp Hero, the Montauk Project, all these still floated near the surface of his mind.

He gazed down at Scully over his shoulder again, and, not for the first time, wondered what she was thinking about. Then he grinned at Gibson and slowly shook his head no. He was not playing this game again with him. Mulder looked up at the sky. It was—sadly—too cloudy for astronomy class. He closed his eyes at the snowflakes and inhaled the frigid, peaceful, and salty air. He could smell Scully’s perfume lingering in the breeze, too.

He looked over at the horizon again, and then he turned around back to the lighthouse. This site was beautiful, special, soothing.

“Want to build a rocket someday, Gibson? We could ignite it from here.”

“I’m not sure that’s something permitted in a state park, Mulder,” Scully said.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

She raised her hands. “I’m just saying. I’m not bailing you out of jail again.”

“I was not in … Tss,” he said, waving her off with a small smile. “Never let the law or anything—or anyone—stop you from doing what your heart wants to do, kiddo.”

“Got it,” he said.

“Does space interest you at all?”

“I never really thought about it. I mean, sure, once or twice I must have thought that it would be a quiet place to be in, but that’s all.”

“It’s not quiet enough out here?” Mulder asked, surprised. He turned to Scully. “Scully, shush your brain,” he ordered humoredly. She smiled and he said, “I’m serious.”

He walked behind her, rubbed his palms to warm them while she looked over her shoulder, wondering what he was doing, and he covered her eyes with his hands.

“What are you doing?” she asked, laying her hands over his.

“Shutting your brain off. Hold still, and take a deep breath. You won’t feel anything …”

She smiled. “All you’re doing is putting me in the dark. Which is relatively useless since we won’t see anything anymore in just a few more minutes,” she said, letting his hands remain nonetheless.

“Want me to pull a penny from behind your ear, Scully?” She smiled. “Let go of my hands.” She complied. “Relax and let your arms fall loosely at your sides. You can lay back onto me if you want to.” He bent closer, his mouth next to her ear. “Now, I want you to imagine you’re floating into space.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t talk, just relax, breathe slowly and listen to my voice.” He waited a beat, closing his eyes, too. “Your body is light, and you’re not cold, you’re warmly wrapped and protected in your space suit. You can breathe normally. Around you, there’s nothing but the sun and stars. With just a little wave of your hand, you can spin around in any direction. You see the Earth and it’s no bigger than a marble. Now we want to contemplate the vastness and emptiness of the universe, Scully. We’re free to come back anytime we want, but just for a little while, we want to see how big the galaxy is and if we can relax every muscle of our body and let ourselves fall into the quiet depths of the universe. We want to lean backward and fall. We’re going to keep our eyes closed. We’re not going to think. We’re just going to fly, Scully, okay? The rest of the universe fades away: all your everyday, nagging concerns; the ticking of your biological clock; your crackpot—albeit brilliant—partner who got himself into yet another heart of a global conspiracy—”

She giggled and whirled around to him. Mulder looked at Gibson to see if it had worked. The boy readjusted his glasses on his nose, lowered his cap a little against the breeze, and smiled. Then he walked away.

“It’s dark,” he said.

Mulder turned back to Scully. “I don’t think it worked,” he said, looking into her eyes. He squinted at her a moment or two. _How had it not worked? It almost had on him._

“Let’s go,” she said, blowing hot breaths into her fists.

He watched her as she started to walk down the pathway back to the cars, and then trotted after her. When they were down, the lights of a car were approaching. When it was closer, Mulder saw it was a state troopers’ car and it stopped next to him as he was about to slide into the Wrangler. He waved at them. Gibson had taken his seat next to him.

“Feeling better, sir?” one of the troopers said.

Mulder looked inquiringly at him and the officer pointed to the car.

“I’m not sure I would’ve recognized you, but I know Fay Slater’s car, and you ain’t Fay.”

“Good reasoning there, officer.”

“We’re the ones who brought you to Sheriff Hardaway last night,” he explained.

“I guess this is where I thank you,” he said with a small smile.

Mulder walked over and shook the officer’s hand, and then bent inside the car to shake his colleague’s as well. He braced his elbows, arms crossed, inside the window.

“Can I ask …” Mulder hesitated. “Was I alone?”

“Yeah, you were.” The officer looked over his shoulder, and frowned back at Mulder. “She dumped you there?”

Mulder followed the officer’s gaze. “Oh no, she wasn’t with me.”

The officer smiled wryly. “Ooh okay, I get it. Don’t worry, lots of people go there to make out. I guess it’s more exciting when it’s creepy.”

 _No, you don’t get it_ , Mulder thought. “So, there was no one but me?”

The officer pursed his lips. “Sorry, man. Perhaps, she felt sorry for you and she’s the one who called us.”

“Someone called to tell you I was over there?”

“Yeah. We don’t usually patrol after seven, not outside of the tourist season anyway. Sheriff Hardaway didn’t tell you? There was an anonymous tip.”

“No, we didn’t really get to talk.”

“Well, yeah, you’d have spent the night in your car if it weren’t for that call.”

Mulder nodded. “And it was a woman?”

“I think so.”

“Thanks,” Mulder said, reaching out to shake hands again.

“Okay pal, good night. Take care.”

The officer snapped on the windshield wipers to clear the snow and moved along.

“Okay,” Mulder said to Gibson as he sat behind the wheel, “let’s get you something to eat for tonight and head back.”

He turned the ignition, put the car into drive, and cranked the heat up a bit higher.

They rode in silence for a bit and then Mulder said, “You okay, there, buddy?”

“Yeah,” Gibson replied.

“Is there a problem?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

It didn’t look like it. “It this about Scully and me going out tonight?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“You should start talking to her, though.”

“I’m sorry?”

“And make up your mind.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re hesitant.”

“I am?”

Gibson nodded.

“And that’s a problem?”

“I think so.”

“Why is that a problem?”

Gibson didn’t answer right away, so Mulder turned his face to him and met his gaze, lit by the dashboard. “Agent Scully is already in love.”

Mulder’s heart skipped a beat. He froze, his mind whirling. “Dana,” he corrected the boy, unable to think of anything else to say.

Gibson smiled knowingly. “And so are you.”

Mulder choked and chuckled. “We can’t keep anything from you, can we?”

He shrugged his shoulders. After a moment he said, “Can I tell you something else?”

“Of course, Gibson.”

“Not that it’s my business but … just so you know, I’ve never, um, felt so much love and respect between two people. Not even my parents. You think you’re protecting your friendship by not telling her how you feel, but you’re lying to yourself.”

This time Mulder pulled over and stopped the car. He put his hand over the boy’s shoulder and squeezed it gently.

They were silent in contemplation and then Gibson looked away and said, “Do you think my parents are dead?”

“I don’t know, Gibson. There’s no way to know. I want to believe they’re not. All we can do is wait and hope for the best.”

Gibson looked at Mulder, reading his eyes, and then nodded his head.

A couple hours later, Mulder and Scully had welcomed Fay in their living room, Gibson had been put to bed, and they had headed to the restaurant. They were now finishing their meal.

“Dessert?” Mulder asked.

“No, I don’t think I can eat anything else. It was very good.”

“Excuse me, miss!” a waitress called out from behind the bar.

When Mulder turned around, he saw that the waitress was going after a young woman dressed in rags who had just stormed in.

“Miss!” the waitress called out again.

The Miss in question crossed the restaurant, scanning her eyes frantically across the room, and then she met Mulder’s gaze and strode to their table. She looked young, somewhere in her twenties, and dirty and scared. Mulder stood—more from reflex than anything else—and blocked the way to their table.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she said to Mulder.

He frowned. “Should I?”

She held her breath an instant. “I’m the one who—”

“Miss,” the waitress said, arriving behind the girl.

“You pulled me out of the base,” Mulder said, cutting her off.

She nodded and glanced over his shoulder just as Mulder heard Scully’s chair scrape the floor. He looked behind him.

“What’s going on?” Scully asked.

“He’s after me,” the young woman said.

“Who?” Mulder asked.

“Miss,” the waitress said, “you need to go now.”

“Come on,” said Karen Hardaway who had also joined the party.

“Hold on a second,” Mulder said. Then to the girl: “Who’s after you?”

“And who are you?” Scully said.

The waitress grabbed the young woman’s elbow.

The girl looked with desperate eyes at Scully, then at Mulder. “Stay away from Jake.”

“Enough now,” Karen said, and Mulder caught his breath. “Sorry about that,” Karen told Mulder and Scully.

Karen and the waitress pulled her back, and the young woman jerked her arms in the air to break free—“Okay, I’m going!”—but followed Karen who gestured her over to the exit.

“Was it Jake who attacked me?” Mulder called at her back.

She turned around and the waitress grabbed her again. Karen had moved forward toward the exit. The girl looked at Mulder with resolute eyes. “Stay away from him. Both of you,” she added, looking at Scully.

“Come on, Miss,” Karen said again.

“Let go of me! I’m going!” the girl exclaimed in annoyance, jerking her arm away from the waitress’s grip. The two women stared at each other, and then the waitress leaned closer to her face, squinting at her eyes. The waitress pulled back with a start and put her hand to her chest. “Ivy?”

 _What?_ Mulder thought.

All of a sudden, Ivy rushed out of the restaurant, pushing Karen out of her way. Mulder darted after her but when he opened the door, he couldn’t see anyone. He came back in.

“That was Ivy?” he asked the waitress. “Ivy as in Jake Gill’s former girlfriend?”

The waitress looked shocked, her hand was still resting upon her chest, her mouth slightly open, and her eyes staring into space. She blinked and looked at Mulder. “Ivy was my best friend in high school, I _know_ it was her. But that’s not possible … How can she still be so young? That girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.”


	10. One Hot Night.

When they’d come back from the restaurant, they’d thanked Fay and sent her home, and checked on Gibson, sound asleep in his room. They had talked a little about the restaurant incident that had left them both mostly uneasy, and Scully had taken a quick shower and gone to bed.

Unable to sleep, Mulder sighed in his room. There was that other thing that Scully had said the night before, something that Gibson had confirmed earlier in the evening, a topic they’d been avoiding all day but that he couldn’t get out of his head.

He got to his feet, closed Gibson’s room, and headed to Scully’s. He eased her door open slowly, closed it behind him, and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Mulder,” she asked. “What are you—?”

“Shh,” he said.

Scully rolled onto her back to look at him, reached out to the lamp on her bedside table and switched it on, and he shifted toward her, folding one of his legs beneath him and resting his hands on either side of her hips on the mattress, slightly towering over her.

“Do you remember anything that you said last night?”

“I don’t remember much from last night.”

He sighed. “Okay. I’m going to say her name again, but I promise it’s the last time.”

“Her name?”

“Diana.”

“Oh.”

“Last night you said that ever since she’s taken over our job, you and I have been acting different, distant. And probably you were right. Whatever the reason. But last night, you made a point and I’m thankful now for your moment of … drunken honesty.”

“My pleasure,” she smiled.

“There’s something else that you said.”

“What’s that?”

He took a moment to look at her before he answered. “You said that you loved me.”

“I was drunk.”

“Is that an excuse or an apology?”

“Ha!”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Scully, but I’m genuinely asking.”

“Desperate times.”

“Is that what it was?”

“We’ve been here two weeks, Mulder. The situation is getting on our nerves.”

“And yet I’ve missed you these last two weeks, and it hurt me. More than I can tell.”

He removed one of his hands from where it was on the mattress and lay it flat against her cheek, thumbing it gently. One side of her lips curled up, and her eyes looked almost sad. No, it probably wasn’t sadness. He imagined she was nervous—and a part of him was, too—because if he moved down closer to her it could change everything between them. But the other part of him knew that _this_ was obvious, this was right, and that whether or not it was the thing to do, regardless of what the FBI said about intimate relationships between working partners—which they currently weren’t anymore—or regarding their friendship, they had to stop hiding what they truly felt for each other. He bent down closer to her face, watched her intently, and sunk into her penetrating gaze, his insides whirring with churning anticipation and her eyes glittering with some unnamed emotion. Acknowledging that she hadn’t pushed him away and, drawn to her, he his thumb lingered on her lips, and he finally closed the gap between them and pressed his mouth gently against hers, greeted by her cold, small, and delicate hands on his two-day stubble.

He took his time to caress her lips with his own and then eased himself to lie next to her, sliding an arm underneath her head and resting the other on her stomach as he continued to kiss her slowly and tenderly, feeling relief and desire and love wash all over him. He felt her hand glide underneath his tee-shirt and begin to caress his lower stomach, his chest, his neck. Her hand was still a bit cold, but he pushed away the idea that she was scared. He hooked her leg with his own, folded his arm slightly so that it was below her head to gather her closer to him, angling their faces toward each other as their lips parted and their tongues found their way to one another. How he loved to kiss her, to be tangled with her like this. It was so overwhelming he had to break the kiss to catch his breath.

“Oh, Scully,” he whispered, breathing hard and looking into her eyes.

“Are we really doing this?” she breathed, wrapping her arms around his back.

“What do you think?” he asked. He loved her so much, in so many ways—her beauty, her intelligence, her personality, the respect and trust she had always showed him—he was afraid this could come between them and ruin everything.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t call it nervousness, no. This feels right. Righter than anything I’ve come to believe in.”

“But?” she said, sensing he was letting something out.

It didn’t matter that he loved her so much his chest ached when she talked to another man with seeming interest. It didn’t matter that she had responded so eagerly to his kiss. What mattered was that he knew he had a tendency to ruin things—and what Scully had already gone through because of him was the proof he didn’t need.

“But I don’t want it to be the end of us,” he said simply and honestly.

In lieu of answering, she gently pulled him closer so that his chest was over hers, and she kissed him again. He responded vehemently, his whole weight pressing onto her, her chest rising against him in shallow breathing, her heart probably engaging a race with his own, feeling her hands clenched on his shirt in his back, her body arching toward him, her legs shifting, knees folding and feet digging into the mattress. Without breaking the kiss, he propped himself up and positioned himself between her legs. He braced his weight on his elbows and captured her head, holding it still as he trailed kisses into her neck. She tilted her face up, her body continuing to shift impatiently beneath him, rubbing against his growing arousal, soft sighs coming out of her mouth. What did he ever do to deserve her?

“You’re the most important thing in my world, Scully,” he breathed between kisses.

“Get rid of that, Mulder,” she whispered, tugging at his tee-shirt.

He straightened up on his knees and pulled the piece of clothing over his head. They locked eyes for just an instant, just enough for them to feel safe with one another. Then he looked down at her as she unbuttoned her satin pajama top. She opened it, slowly drawing either side apart. She was naked underneath. No bra, her breasts on full display, taut nipples, brown against the fair color of her skin, honeyed shadows casting over her smoothed belly. God, she was beautiful. Scully propped herself on her elbows and Mulder reached out and grazed his fingertips from the top of her chest to her belly button. They stared at each other, and Scully gently slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, grabbed the piece of clothing, and pulled him back to her. Her hand wasn’t cold anymore. He lowered himself again and pushed her back into the mattress and gathered her into his arms. Their skin touched. Hers was the finest of silk. He closed his eyes at the sensation of her bare skin brushing against his, a wave of heat washing over him. Her head rocked back against the pillow, a warm moan escaping her mouth. Their tongues entwined in a kiss again, her hands at the nape of his neck, a radiating tingle spreading throughout his body. His lips lingered for a long moment on her cheek as he tried to slow his breathing and heart rate, and then they traveled from her cheek to her neck, from her neck to her shoulder, and finally from her shoulder to her breasts. As he freed one of his hands to travel up one breast, he closed his mouth around the other one and began to lick the nipple, ply his tongue against it, sucking it into his mouth. She arched against him, her body writhing under his, pushing her breasts into his hand and mouth, and she let out another moan. He gently put his hand to cover her mouth. “Gibson,” he whispered by way of explanation without looking up.

She grabbed his hand and put it back on her breast.

“I’ll be quieter,” she murmured.

His mouth released her breast and he pulled back, lifting himself up on outstretched arms to gaze down at her. Reaching out, he tucked a few stray locks of her red hair behind her ear. His heart was drumming so hard he thought he could die right here in her arms.

She smiled and swept some sweat drops from his forehead. “I’ll try anyway.”

“God, Scully, how are you so beautiful, so perfect?”

“Shut up, Mulder. For once in your life, stop thinking and feel.”

“Oh, I feel, Scully. Believe me, I feel.”

He took her hand, lay it over his heart for her to check, and then he pulled her to a sitting position onto his lap, leaned forward against her, kissed her again, curved his hands over her butt and drew her closer as she wrapped her arms over his shoulders, pressing herself against him. She giggled against his mouth—the sweetest of sounds—and he kissed her harder, his erection stiffening and a groan escaping his throat at his need as their breaths rose in puffs. His desire was overpowering in its intensity, pulsing through his body, escalating, and all he could think about was getting closer to her. She swept her arms from around his neck to his back, drawing him closer, stroking further downward, sliding inside his sweatpants until she cupped his ass, her nails digging into his skin. He gasped in response.

“God, I love you so m—”

She pressed her lips to his. He cupped her face and slanted it further, kissing her harder and deeper with more passion than he’d ever felt. Want raw as if they were trying to fuck each other’s brain out. One hand moved to the back of her head, fingers twining in her hair, while the other moved south, caressing her neck and chest, skimming her nipples, stroking her flat stomach. There, the tip of his fingers felt the waistband of her pajamas. She took his wrist and gently eased his hand all the way down, inside her pajamas bottoms. Well, if he had had any doubts that she wasn’t a hundred percent sure she wanted this, they were gone now. How was it possible that he hadn’t seen Scully’s love for what it was before? Pure. Selfless. Undemanding. Free. His breathing ragged a bit as his hand started to gently run down to the warm, wet flesh, over her pubic hair, and then he slipped his fingers against the silk of her skin. Her body tightened against him, her head jolted back, and she let out a slight sound of pleasure.

They were both panting hard, sweating with lust, burning with flames of desire and need. Suddenly, the lamp on her nightstand went off and he heard pounding on the door. He stopped short.

“Heard that?” he panted.

“Yeah,” she said, breathless, gathering her pajama top closed.

He gently and firmly moved her aside, and crawled out of bed, pushing himself almost painfully to a standing position, his arousal pointing, throbbing inside his sweatpants. “Don’t move.”

More pounding. This time, they heard their names called out.

When Mulder opened the door, a blast of heat hit him and made him recoil backward. He ducked aside, bowed his head, raising his arms in the air to protect his face.

“Scully,” he called, “the house is on fire.”

“Mary! David!” a woman yelled outside. Probably Fay.

Mulder hurried back to the bed, pulled Scully by the hand. “D’you have shoes?”

“Um, yes, somewhere,” she said, moving fast and looking around in the dark.

“Put ’em on and get out of here, I’ll get Gibson.”

“Yes,” she said as Mulder had already disappeared into the thick smoke that overflowed the hallway.

In the bathroom, he grabbed a towel and soaked it with water. He left the water running, shoved more towels into the sink and returned to Scully’s room, and threw the soaked towel at her. “Put this over your head,” he urged. “Come on, Scully, get out of here.”

“I can’t find my shoes,” she said, alarm in her voice, as she looked under her bed.

In a brief second, he wondered if she was panicking. He strode to her side, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to him as he hurriedly returned to the door. “Take my running shoes, they’re right next to my bed.” He had another pair at the foot of the stairs, and hoped they hadn’t been reduced to ashes already.

He pushed his bedroom door open and she hurried inside. He coughed, threw a last glimpse at her and rushed to Gibson’s door. He found the boy sound asleep. He threw the sheet and blanket away, uncovering him, and grabbed the boy by his shoulders.

“Gibson, get up, we gotta get outta here. The house’s on fire.”

“Wha—?”

“Come on,” he said, helping him up.

He quickly put the shoes on the kid. Got out of the room. They passed Mulder’s room and he made sure Scully wasn’t there anymore.

“Scully?”

No response.

He moved on, halting in the bathroom to grab another towel, gave it to Gibson as they both coughed hard, and rushed through the smoky air with the boy held tightly to his side. From the top of the stairs, he could see the dense orange shade glowing in the dark, he could smell and hear the sinister whisper cracking and crawling up the walls, and he could feel the fevered heat waves.

“There’s no escape route,” he told Gibson. “Take a deep breath, hold the towel to your face, and let’s do this.”

Gibson nodded, fear all over his face. God, Mulder hated fire, too. Not the best way to take a kid out of a slumber, he admitted. Not the best way to pause a making-out session, no matter how stifling, either. He looked ahead with determination, took a deep breath, and strode down the stairs dragging Gibson alongside him. Over the noise of the fire and of the pounding on the door and Fay’s screams, he heard the muffled sound of a siren approaching outside. The sight of the living room was horrifying. They halted at the bottom of the stairs so he could slid into his shoes, his eyes on the room crumbling feebly, feral flames engulfing and swallowing down the furniture whole with sweltering tentacles. The bookshelves had already almost been reduced to ashes which flew all around them. Through his shoes, he could feel the heat. The fire had spread so rapidly as to suggest the possibility that it had been fueled by an accelerant, but now was not the time to investigate. Fumes choked them both. Mulder’s breath caught in his throat when he realized the front door was closed. He glimpsed at the windows. They were closed too, and furthermore curtained with a wall of ferocious flames. How did Scully get out?

A shudder of horror and fear jerked through him and shot down his spine when he saw the key still on the inside of the door. He struggled to control his mounting panic and unlocked the door and stormed out of the burning house with Gibson, passing Fay without even seeing her but hearing her breathe an exclamation of relief.

“You okay?” Sheriff Hardaway called when he caught sight of Mulder and Gibson. He was coming out of his car, the engine was still running.

“Where’s Scully?” Mulder called, panic now well apparent in his voice.

Hardaway looked at him with a question on his face. “Who’s Scully?”

“You’ve seen her about a thousand times!” Gibson nudged his elbow, and Mulder realized he’d said the wrong name. “Mary! My wife! Where is she?”

“She’s not out yet.”

Mulder whirled around and Hardaway called his name. Fire engines’ sirens wailed from down the road as Mulder jumped to return to the burning house. Two officers caught his midsection. As Mulder struggled furiously to break free, jiggling and fighting in their arms, they held him harder.

“Let me go!” he screamed.

He spun in the officers’ arms and threw his fists in the air. A flash from a camera lit the night. It was a photographer. Mulder punched one officer in the jaw and he flinched, but the other hit Mulder back, hard in his stomach. Mulder’s breath left him in a rush and he doubled over, threw his fist in the air again and Hardaway caught it.

“You can’t go back in there,” Hardaway said. “Calm down!”

“MY WIFE IS IN THERE!”

Mulder glared at them, gathered his strength, and broke free and he rushed forward. One officer grabbed his arms and drew them behind Mulder’s back. Mulder struggled forward. The other officer took ahold of Mulder’s ankles. Mulder fell heavily onto the crispy grass as an officer’s knees pinned him down and the man’s camera flash crackled again.

“Jamie, hold it right there,” Hardaway told the photographer. “Now’s not the time.”

“Let go!” Mulder yelled again, trying to break away and roll to his back.

“Not every day we get a fire in the paper,” Jamie retorted.

“Dave,” Hardaway said, kneeling next to Mulder, “calm down. Look! Firemen are here. They’ll get her out. JAMIE, GODDAMMIT, GET LOST!”

“It might be too late! Fuck, Paul, let me go!” he said as he powerlessly watched the men exit their truck and unroll the hose, one plugging it into a fire hydrant and darting inside. Another flash.

“Mickey, get me Jamie outta here!”

Slumped on the ground, Mulder dropped his forehead to the grass, breathed and shivered.

“Someone get me a blanket!” Hardaway called.

Then Mulder felt a hand slip under his arm. “Let him go,” Hardaway ordered gently to his men, and then Mulder was helped up to his feet. The Sheriff made Mulder look at him. “Can I release you? Can I trust you that you won’t do anything stupid the second I let go?”

“No,” Mulder replied honestly.

Hardaway didn’t release him. They kept searching each other’s eyes. Mulder stayed put nonetheless. He broke eye contact and looked anxiously toward his house. A blanket was put on his shoulders and he wrapped it around him. What were these men doing? Did they have their sights on Scully? God … God … He just couldn’t stay here, waiting and hoping for the best.

“Why did you call your wife, Scully, David?”

Mulder slowly turned his face back to the Sheriff. He scrutinized him. His gut told him he could trust him. And his gut had rarely been wrong. He sighed.

“Because that’s her name.”

The Sheriff cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes. Mulder returned his gaze to the house. He couldn’t wait anymore. He felt the Sheriff’s grip around his arm had loosened. If he were quick enough, he could trick him. Before he had the time to finish reviewing his options, Mulder was rushing toward the flames.

“DAVID!” Hardaway yelled.

He ducked his head and protected it with his arm as he barreled into the living room.

“SCULLY!”

Smoke and heat instantly filled his lungs, burning his face and larynx. Three firemen were hosing the ceiling and the walls. Mulder made himself into a ball underneath the blanket. Darted to the sink in the kitchen and soaked the blanket with water. He dashed headfirst to the stairs.

“Get back here!” A firefighter called. “We’re not done with the first floor.”

_No kidding!_ Mulder thought. “SCULLY!”

“David!” he heard. “It’s Tom, come back down and let us take care of it!” but Mulder was already taking the stairs two by two.

Flames lapped the stairs at the ceiling junction of the second floor, singing into the fumed air. A burning beam blocked the top of the stairs. The heat stung his face and bare chest and back, and smoke burned his eyes. Mulder took a deep breath in the blanket and then hefted it like a whip and snapped it restlessly several times against the piece of wood, bits of flames singing his torso as they jumped from the beam in protest, Mulder refusing to stop until a section came clear enough for him to move forward. The hallway of the second floor wasn’t on fire yet but was obscured by black smoke, and with the inferno slithering onto the stairs it wouldn’t take long. It was spreading too quickly. He called to her again. Strained to hear above the crackling of the wooden wall and the roaring of the flames. He kicked the first door open, Scully’s. Called her name. Kicked the bathroom door. The water still running was overflowing from the sink. After Gibson’s room, Mulder rushed into what had been his bedroom for the last two weeks and he found Scully lying lifeless on her side.

“Scully!” He kneeled by her side and grabbed her under the arm. “Scully, get up!” He held her tight against him, her body unresponsive, floppy like dead, spineless meat in his arms. She’d lost consciousness, but she was still breathing. He flipped her over his shoulder and clutched her legs to his chest, shoving the drenched blanket over her back.

When he turned toward the hallway again, the greedy flames were starting to lick the walls.

“COME ON!” Mulder heard before he could see water splashing in the staircase.

He rushed toward the voice and was greeted with heavy drops.

“You got her?” the helmeted man said.

“Yeah, get us out of here.”

Back outside, Mulder threw the blanket away and carefully lowered Scully down onto her back, holding her head as he did. He bent his face to her mouth so as to feel her breathing. He sensed Hardaway at his back before he heard him request an EMT. Mulder gently slapped Scully’s face, calling her name again. He stroked her face and hair, he squeezed her hands, and eventually she coughed and opened her eyes. He fell on his ass with relief and pulled her to his lap, held her tight against his chest.

“Jeez …”

“Mulder—?”

“I’m here,” he said, resting his trembling hand on the side of her face, enclosing her tightly in his arms, as though they were shields of love. “You’re okay,” he reassured. _You’re okay_ , he repeated inwardly. Which was more than he could say about himself as the loud booms of his heart shook him whole.

Sheriff Hardaway slowly kneeled in front of them, stared at them an instant, and then he extended his arm with the folded blanket he had in his hand. Mulder blinked away the tears that obstructed his sight—probably the smoke and ashes—and nodded thankfully as he took it. Sheriff Hardaway’s look was impassive, but Mulder knew he’d want an explanation. Mulder covered Scully with the blanket.

“Put it over your back too if you don’t want to freeze to death. And get in the ambulance, your son’s waiting for you there. Or is he really your son?”

His gaze on the officer, Mulder felt Scully’s head shift in his arms. Mulder nodded. “We need to talk.”

“I think so too.”


	11. There Are Two Sides to Every Question.

The Joneses had been transported and checked out at the Southampton Hospital, a little less than an hour away from Montauk, and Scully had pulled out her doctor card so they could be released just as Sheriff Hardaway had been arriving—he’d stopped at his house and grabbed clothes for them. He had advised them against leaving the hospital, but none of them had been injured, and they hadn’t wanted to spend another minute there, so Hardaway had given in and told them that Fay Slater had offered to take them in if they didn’t know where else to go; in November, hotels were only open when they people called ahead to make a reservation—Hardaway had commented that he would have offered them a room too if he hadn’t been so unsure of who they were anymore. And Mulder and Scully hadn’t missed Hardaway’s staring at Gibson’s scars on his head. Mulder and Scully were used to them and Gibson’s hair had even started to grow again since they’d arrived, but it must have been the first time Hardaway had seen him without his baseball cap on, and admittedly, to anyone who didn’t know the story and with their false identities now exposed, it sure looked suspicious.

With no roof and no better option, they had accepted Sheriff Hardaway’s ride back. Hardaway had driven in heavy silence with Mulder in the passenger seat. Gibson had somehow managed to fall asleep again against Scully’s side in the back.

“I’ll give you the rest of the night,” Hardaway had said when he’d dropped them off in the Slaters’ driveway. “Only because of this kid, and because whoever the hell you are, this kid seems to need you. But don’t make me regret it. Don’t make me come back and have to pick you up. I want you at the precinct first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, Paul,” Mulder had said. Sheriff Hardaway had squinted his eyes at Mulder and nodded slowly.

Mulder had offered to let Gibson sleep with them, to bring a mattress in their room, but the boy had said it wasn’t necessary and had fallen fast asleep. Mulder had waited a few more minutes, and then had returned to the next room and snuggled against Scully’s back, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. It was past midnight, her hands were clasped beneath her cheek and her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn’t asleep.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

More minutes passed in silence.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he whispered.

“Now what do we do, Mulder? What are we going to say now that we’re exposed,” she breathed.

“I know,” he said softly, pressing his mouth onto her shoulder. The Sheriff knew Mulder and Scully weren’t who they said they were, then there was that photographer, and Tom the fireman maybe … He sighed. “For now, we’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”

She twisted around in his arms to face him. “And tomorrow, and the next day? You said there was a photographer. What will he put in the paper?”

Mulder nodded knowingly and thought quickly. “When was the last time you had a vacation, and I mean a _paid vacation_ , not a forced leave of absence from work?”

“You’re thinking of running away?”

“If we stay, we have to explain everything and expose Gibson.”

“But if we run, we look like we have something to hide—we look like criminals.”

“Well, we may not be criminals but we do have something to hide. News travels too fast in this town. Paul is skeptical, and if we tell him the truth he will have to make phone calls to check if any of this is true. I mean, okay, I called Skinner shortly after we arrived, but at least I didn’t have to explain who I was in this life and where I was currently located.”

“But Paul will.”

“Probably.”

She was silent, her eyes boring into his, and Mulder’s fingertips lingered fondly across her forehead to soothe her.

“Who torched our house?” she asked barely above a whisper.

“I might have an idea.”

“Jake?”

He nodded.

“Because of what that girl said in the restaurant?”

“It’s possible. I think the Montauk Project was real, Scully, and that Jake was one of the young victims. And I think that somehow Jake continued on with the experiments. He became one of the shadowy men he had hated and feared in his youth and took his revenge on Ivy, maybe in spite of himself, like a kid who endures a series of violence and later on reproduces the same horrid patterns on his own kids into his adulthood. I think—whether or not there was someone in his family who defended him when he was defenseless—the repeated abuse in his childhood has altered his sense of what’s good and bad and ruined most of his close relationships.”

Scully nodded softly. “And this … Ivy?”

“I think the girl we saw in the restaurant was from the past. She’s time-traveling. I think she might be trying to escape her own fate.”

“Wouldn’t an easier explanation be that who we thought was Ivy was really her daughter?”

Mulder was silent.

“And you think she was the one who drugged you at Camp Hero? Why did she help you? What was she doing there?”

“I have no idea.” He thought about it for an instant. “It’s possible I interrupted something, or Jake wanted another subject for whatever the hell he’s doing, I don’t know.”

They were silent another beat.

“You said Jake owned our house, that it was his parents’? Wasn’t there a better way to get rid of you than burn his own house to the ground?”

“Maybe it was easier for him this way. Maybe it felt to him he was sending his parents to hell, too? Maybe he’s even responsible for their death? Don’t ask _me_.”

She smiled softly and whispered a small “Yeah.” Looking into his eyes, she stroked her palm gently across his cheek. “You think we’re safe here for the night?”

“Oh yeah,” he assured, “Fay is a motion detector, a smoke detector, and an alarm clock all wrapped in one. I mean, she was aware of the fire before we were.”

She chuckled softly and leaned her forehead against his chin.

“Tomorrow we’ll go to the bank and ask for a large withdrawal—maybe $20,000, an amount substantial enough for several days—and we’ll get new phones. And then I’ll break the ‘no calling your former acquaintances’ rule and call the Gunmen. There’s no other way. We need their help if we want to be able to return to our life one day or another.”

“Okay,” she admitted. “It’s probably better to call the guys than Skinner.”

“Yes,” he said, thoughtful.

“And we have to see Paul, too.”

“Yeah …” he mumbled.

They fell silent again and then Mulder moved his head closer to hers and slid his hand below her neck as his eyes studied hers with silent intensity in the dim space between them. Her hand came to caress his cheek, and her thumb traced a line along his lower lip. She leaned in, clasped her hands on either side of his face, and their breaths mingled into a kiss. Her grip tightened as she tangled her arms around his neck, and he caught her face. In that moment, time stopped; he didn’t care where they were or what they’d been through or what they’d have to go through again in the next hours or days or weeks: in that moment, it was just him and her floating into space again. Everything else fell away. He inhaled deeply through his nose and angled his face to the side, his body flushing with blissful heat. He so wanted to melt in her, disappear into her, to be one with her. He never knew a kiss could feel so intimate. He tipped her face further toward his, and twined his tongue around hers, tasting the mint flavor of her toothpaste, the sound of his heart so loud he could barely hear the little voice in his head that was telling him, “Stop it, stop it now, warning ahead.”

But thankfully one of them still had that bit of wisdom within them and her voice wavered when, as they pulled apart, she whispered, “We’d better stop right here.” She smiled.

“Yeah,” he agreed regrettably.

She stroked his chest and turned around in his arms again, and he shifted, spooning her body with his own, his hand drifting to her hip, pulling her closer, and settling there. She took it and hugged it above her breasts, twining her fingers with his. He matched his breathing with hers, cradling her to his chest and closing his eyes at her scent which was too good for words.

“This is the second night in a row you’re platonically going to sleep in my arms, Scully,” he said after a moment.

“Hopefully not the last.”

“Well, I was actually stressing the platonic activity here.”

“Platonic activity, my ass,” she smiled, lightly looking over her shoulder, briefly pressing her butt against his groin.

“Don’t be such a tease, Scully,” he said, cupping her face and tilting it to crush his lips onto hers.

She broke free from the kiss, giggling, and he covered her mouth with his hand, hushed her, and then released her.

“A kiss is a promise of more to come,” she said reassuringly as she took his hand in hers again, and she nestled into his chest.

“I want to believe.”

“I do, too,” she whispered, opening his hand and resting it on her breast. “In the meantime, you get to keep me warm. It’s a win-win situation.”

He smiled, kissed her neck, and then said, “Good night, Scully.”

She replied, “Good night, Mulder,” and closed her eyes.

For Mulder, falling asleep usually meant analyzing and dissecting every single moment of the day, a spinning carousel of thoughts that kept replaying, casting bright images onto his mind’s forefront. Tonight, though, in spite of everything that had happened in the last thirty or so hours, he fell asleep before she did, within minutes.

He didn’t know what time it was when they were awakened out of their sleep by a small knock at their door. Scully shifted in front of him. He sat on the edge of the bed, put his jeans on, and slid his tee-shirt over his head.

“What time is it?” Scully asked.

“Three,” he said after checking his watch, and he strolled to the door.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Fay said, tightening her bathrobe around her neck, “but the police are here and want to see you.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there.”

After donning a sweatshirt, he went to the front door and closed it behind him to limit eavesdropping. Facing Sheriff Hardaway and another officer, he put his hands under his arms against the cold of the night.

“What is it?”

“We need you to come with us, David,” Sheriff Hardaway said.

“Now? Can’t this wait until the morning like we agreed less than three hours ago?”

“I’m afraid not. Trust me, I’d rather be in bed too, but I got a disturbing call from the Fire Marshals.”

Mulder listened to the law officer and then said, “Okay, let me tell my wife and I’ll go with you.”

“Yeah, I suggest you tell her to make arrangements for Jason because we’re gonna need to hear from her in the morning too, and it may take a while. That much hasn’t changed from earlier tonight: your … _son_ … is the only reason I’m not bringing her in as well.”

Scully propped herself up on one elbow when Mulder came back to their bedroom. “What’s going on?”

He sat next to her waist. “They want me to go in for questioning. They found a body in the house.”

“What? Whose?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But if I’m not back in the morning, go and get phones, call the Gunmen, go to the bank, and then come to the precinct.”

“Mulder—”

“It’s okay, Scully. If I go quietly, you and Gibson get to stay here the rest of the night—at the very least.”

“You really think I’ll be able to go back to sleep?”

“Try,” he said softly. “I’ll buy as much time as I can. You know Frohike’s number?”

“Yes.”

“You do?” he asked, frowning, and then he smiled. He stroked her arm. “Go back to sleep, and be careful.”

She nodded gravely. He squeezed her hand and left.

***

“Have they identified the body yet?” Mulder asked.

“Not yet.”

“Do we know if it’s male or female?”

“ _We?_ If you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions.”

Mulder acquiesced and leaned forward to grab his mug of coffee on the table. He stared at the Sheriff across the table from over the top of his mug, blowing into it to cool it down a little as silence settled for an instant between the two men in the claustrophobic, austere, and sparsely furnished interrogation room—one table and four uncomfortable chairs designed for the sole purpose of hurting your back after a few minutes of sitting. Mulder could hear Scully again when she’d said “We look like criminals,” and he thought, _Pretty much_. The door was open and Mulder wasn’t cuffed—thankfully—but he knew that the friendship and trust that had once existed between the two men were gone, that the Sheriff had chosen this room on purpose rather than his office to remind Mulder that the Sheriff was the Sheriff and Mulder was … whoever he was.

“The Fire Marshals found some gas cans in your kitchen, too.”

“Well, of course it’s arson, did you think I got so cold I decided to build a bonfire in the middle of the living room?”

“Don’t even joke about it, David, this is serious.”

“Believe me, I never thought it wasn’t.”

Sheriff Hardaway leaned forward and twined his fingers together on the table. “Let’s start with the easy stuff. Who are you? I know David Jones isn’t your real name.”

“To tell you the truth, last night when I’d just gotten out of the house I wanted to tell you, but now if you believe I might have anything to do with that fire, I’m not sure.”

“What do I call you then?”

“You’ve been calling me David for the past two weeks, nothing has changed. I’m the same man.”

“Things have changed, _David_. Your house has been burnt to the ground. And the day before, the state troopers found you at Camp Hero. I was going to let you off the hook for that, but I don’t know if I can anymore.”

“You’ve got it all backwards. Why would I burn my own house down with my whole family inside? Do I look suicidal to you?”

“You can never be sure about this kind of stuff.”

“Well, I’m not,” Mulder asserted. He put his mug back on the table and folded his arms across his chest, leaning back slightly in his chair, the back of the chair digging into his shoulder blades.

“What were you doing at Camp Hero?”

“Just being curious about the local folklore.”

“Did you use drugs?”

“No.”

“You were barely conscious when they found you, and you sounded paranoid when you arrived here.”

“I told you: I read all the issues of Paranoia magazine.” Mulder couldn’t explain why he’d been “barely conscious” as the Sheriff said, all he had were speculations: that this girl, Ivy, had drugged him in order to drag him out of the basement. Mulder wanted to know what he’d said that had made him sound paranoid, but he figured he didn’t need to add to his case.

“Why can’t you tell me your name?”

“Because you’ll have to make some phone calls to corroborate my story.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“I just can’t take the risk.”

“A risk to whom? You?”

Mulder grabbed the seat of his chair and pulled it closer to the table, clasping his hands between his legs. “If I told you my name, you’d have to give me your word you’ll accept it as the truth.”

“I’m not sure I can do that,” Hardaway said.

Mulder looked at the officer, studying his eyes and physical posture. Still leaned forward, bracing himself on his elbows with his neck buried between his shoulders, Mulder could tell Hardaway was tired, but the Sheriff enjoyed his job too much to focus on how they’d shared coffee at Amanda’s, how they’d waved at each other each time their cars passed one another, or how they’d joked while waiting for their kids to get out of school. The old Dave was dead to him.

Mulder nodded thoughtfully. “No, I’m not sure you can, either. Yet learning my name won’t tell you anything about who torched our house. You want to get some answers? Try talking to Jake.”

“Jake Gill? Your neighbor?”

“Yeah.”

“What about him?”

“Just bring him in and start asking questions.”

“I have a problem with that.”

“Why? Because he’s lived here all his life so he’s gotta be innocent?”

“No, I have a problem with that because one of my officers reported he stopped a fight between you two the very night before the fire.”

Mulder leaned back against his chair.

“What was the fight about?”

Mulder chose not to answer that question.

“You know what’s bothering me?” Hardaway said.

“I think I do, but you can tell me anyway.”

“It’s the boy.”

That was _not_ what Mulder thought was bothering the Sheriff. Hardaway paused an instant, scrutinizing Mulder’s eyes, and Mulder hoped the Sheriff hadn’t caught the sudden clenching of his fists under his armpits.

“I’m pretty sure he’s not your son,” Hardaway continued. “And I have really conflicted feelings about whether I should leave him with you or protect him _from_ you.”

“You’re doing the right thing by leaving him with us.”

“I don’t know, man, the scars I saw on his head last night didn’t seemed like whatever injuries he’d suffered from were handled properly … professionally.”

Mulder stared back.

“Is Mary really a medical doctor? ’Cause I would hate that she—”

“Yes, she’s a doctor,” Mulder cut him off gently. That much was the truth.

Hardaway squinted, reaching out blindly to grab his mug. He took a sip of his coffee, and then said, “So it’s Doctor Scully? Doctor Sully?”

_Don’t look into it_ , Mulder commanded the officer mentally. “You’re focusing on the wrong issue, Sheriff. Really.”

“Are we going to find more incriminating evidence in your house or your car?”

“If you do, try to remember they may have been planted there.”

“You know I could ask for birth certificates. I could order blood tests for all three of you to see if he’s really your kid.”

“That wouldn’t prove anything. He could have been adopted.”

“And was he?”

Silence.

The Sheriff paused again. “There’s something else.”

_Of course there was_. Mulder chuckled—more nervously than anything else because this situation wasn’t remotely funny. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“I heard you finally tried my wife’s restaurant last night. Did you like it?”

_Okay_ , Mulder thought, _I see where this is going_. “It was very good.”

“Yeah. And then something happened, didn’t it? Want to tell me about it? ’Cause what Karen told me is disturbing.”

Mulder closed his eyes and rubbed them. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “A woman came up to us.”

“Yeah? What did she want?”

“She told us to stay away from Jake.”

“So I’ve been told.” He nodded. “Do you know why she said that?”

“No. But she’s the reason I told you to bring Jake in for questioning.”

“Had you seen this woman before?”

“No.”

“Did she say her name?”

“No.”

“But you know who she was?”

Mulder looked at the man in front of him. “A waitress thought she recognized her as Jake’s girlfriend.”

“Ivy?”

“I think that’s the name she mentioned, yes.”

“Yet, she was too young to really be Ivy, wasn’t she?”

“Paul, like I said, I’d never seen this woman before in my life.”

There was silence.

“What was so awful about Mary and Jason and whoever else was in your house tonight that you had to set your own house on fire?”

More silence.

“I don’t wanna guess anything, David. I wanna hear it from you.”

After another long silence, the Sheriff asked again. “What’d they do, David?”

Finally, Mulder responded: “I’ll use my right to remain silent now.”


	12. Getting Ready To Leave This Life.

SUNDAY NOVEMBER 29, 1998.

Somehow Scully had finally fallen asleep during the night. She opened her eyes at the smell of fresh coffee and bacon, and stared absently at the other side of the bed—empty. She stretched and got out of bed and dressed over the protests of her stiff body, wondering if the mattress she’d slept on was a hundred years old. She immediately regretted her sarcastic thoughts, though, and wondered if Mulder had even slept at all. After a quick check on Gibson to find him still sleeping in his bed, she closed his door again and followed the morning scents until she met Fay in the kitchen.

The elderly woman greeted her warmly with a smile and a cup of steaming coffee. If she had heard Mulder calling her Scully, Fay’s demeanor hadn’t changed overnight.

“Thank you,” Scully said, accepting the mug with both hands. She would pass on the bacon and eggs, though.

“I hope I didn’t wake you, I’m not used to having guests and George is deaf as a post and doesn’t usually wake up until nine.”

“No, this aroma roused me out of bed,” Scully smiled and inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes briefly. She would need coffee to get through the day, no doubt about it.

“What a night, eh?” Fay said as she sat on a chair.

Scully raised her brows and shook her head self-consciously at the understatement. She smiled and whispered, “Yes.”

“David never came back,” Fay said.

“No, he didn’t.”

“What was it about?”

“They had questions,” Scully replied evasively. She took the chair opposite Fay and sat down at the table.

Fay nodded, contemplating her coffee.

“If you don’t need your car this morning, I’d like to borrow it. I probably won’t be authorized to go home and look for my car keys. We need clothes and then I have to go to the Sheriff’s.”

“Of course, take it.”

“Do you know which hotel might be open for reservations?”

“Hmm, I’ll have to think about it, but you can stay here as long as you want, dear, it’s no problem.”

“Thank you, we don’t want to be a bother if the situation is going to last. I’ll call the realtor but in the meantime it’s probably better if we stay in a hotel.”

“Well, it’s up to you, of course. But in any case, you won’t reach your realtor today.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s Sunday.”

Scully had completely lost her sense of time. It wouldn’t be long before she’d lost her sense of place and reality, too. Fay was right though, it _was_ Sunday, which meant she wouldn’t get to talk to Rockefeller until the next day, either.

When Scully and Gibson started down the driveway, it was seven-thirty and the sun was barely rising. Scully cautiously steered Fay’s Wrangler past the white-painted landscape heading into Montauk Town Center. It was a landscape matching her sudden cold loneliness, Scully realized. She drove past Jake’s house, noting that all the lights were off and his pickup wasn’t in his driveway. She wouldn’t have minded asking him a few questions. She brought her attention back to the road ahead. It was slippery. It wasn’t a regularly traveled roadway—more in line with a private lane—so the new-fallen snow covering everything, even in the dimly lit woods, hadn’t been removed, and the whole scenery glistened and sparkled under her headlights. Well, the whole scenery _except_ when they passed in front of what had been their house for the last two weeks. Her gut twisted at the sight. The frame was still standing on its two floors but it was all black. Scully’s gaze flicked in Gibson’s direction; his face was turned toward their house. She rubbed his shoulder for comfort, feeling sorry that they’d only managed to add to his troubles.

He shifted in his seat, his right arm braced against the windowsill, and he faced Scully. “Why are we going to run away like criminals?”

She chuckled and smiled at him; she had almost forgotten who she was dealing with. There was no point in trying to hide things from him, therefore she explained what she and Mulder decided during the night. He understood and fell silent again, returning his gaze outside.

In town, most of the snow was gone and only nasty brown puddles testified to the first snowfall of the early winter.

Scully and Gibson sat at a booth next to the window at Amanda’s from where they had a view of the stores of the Plaza while they ate pancakes and bagels. They were silent, waiting for the stores to open. As a family walked by, Scully remembered the happy afternoon they had spent playing golf, and Scully nervously played with her fake wedding ring. That seemed such a long time ago, so much had happened since then. A part of her was sorry this life had to come to an end, especially as nothing was solved for Gibson.

Minutes later, she bought a few pants, tees and warm sweaters, and a knit cap and a winter jacket for each of them. Then she got a new set of phones, and withdrew $1,000 from her and Mulder’s credit cards. She was really starting to feel like a criminal.

It was around nine when the “no service” message on her phone screen was replaced by “AT&T”, and she dialed the number. As she listened to the connecting tone, the cold air numbed her cheeks and fingers. She and Gibson were sitting on a bench facing the Pond and they could see little ripples on its surface each time a new icy wave hit them. Scully ignored the tingling sensations and tugged at her hair sneaking out from under her knit cap; her mind was swirling, too clouded with their seemingly intractable situation.

“Frohike?” she asked when no ‘Hello’ was uttered from the other end of the line.

“Man, we’ve been worried sick,” came Frohike’s voice on the phone. “All we had was that one call Mulder made to Skinner two weeks ago, but it was too short for us to try and locate you. How are you?”

“Are you trying again now?”

“Hmm,” he hesitated.

“Good, keep at it,” she said reassuringly.

“Okay,” he said, hesitant again, sounding like he was waiting for the reason why it was suddenly okay for them to know where Mulder and Scully had been hiding.

“Yes, we need your help.”

She explained briefly how they couldn’t call the FBI, how they feared someone less well-meaning might catch wind of the communication, and how it might take too long for them to be removed through the proper channels, how they were now exposed to some in the community. She explained how they wanted the Gunmen to retrieve them from their location as soon as possible.

“You hang in there, Scully,” Frohike said when she was done talking. “We know where you are now. We’ll get you out of there. Can I use this number to get back with you?”

“Yes,” she replied, and ended the call.

Gibson leaned into the wind on the bench and looked back at Scully over his shoulder. “Now what?” he wondered, pulling his knit cap down tightly to cover his forehead.

Scully smiled reassuringly as he was working his jacket zipper up and down rapidly. She got up, stood in front of him, and she pulled the boy’s jacket zipper all the way up into his neck. “Now we go to the police station and see what’s going on with Mulder.” She waited for his answer. “You up for it?”

He nodded.

Twenty minutes later, they parked in front of the precinct. Scully opened the glove compartment and put the new phones in there, and then they looked at each other, took a deep breath and quickly walked toward the station.

Paul Hardaway stood from behind his desk when he saw them come in and shook Scully's hand.

“Morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Paul,” she replied.

Paul looked down at Gibson and put his hands in his pants pockets. “You okay, kiddo?” he asked.

“I’d rather be in my bed with a comic book if you wanna know,” Gibson replied.

“Yeah,” Paul chuckled. “I know what you mean.”

“But Mom said you arrested Dad and we needed to come to the station, so here we are. Thanks for nothing.”

Scully tilted her head up to the ceiling trying to suppress the tingle in her heart. She quickly inhaled deeply and blinked back the tears that threatened behind her eyelids, and she looked back down again. Paul kneeled in front of Gibson and leveled his eyes with the boy’s.

“Son,” Paul said, “you don’t have to pretend anymore.” He looked up at Scully and she hoped her anxiety didn’t show. He looked at the boy again: “I know your name isn’t Jones, and I’m not sure what’s going on, but if you need protection, I want you to know that you’re safe here.”

Gibson held the officer’s gaze, and said sharply, “You don’t know anything.”

Paul pulled back a little, and then he straightened up again slowly. “Why don’t we all take a seat?” He gestured toward his desk.

“Can I see David?”

“In a little while. Let’s have a little talk first.”

Gibson gave Scully a small encouraging nod and they followed the officer. They sat in front of him. The Sheriff offered them coffee or juice, but they declined. Then he was silent another minute as he examined the woman and the boy in front of him. Scully figured he was trying to decide if he should consider them criminals or not. After all, criminals weren’t the only ones who had something to hide, and if he searched harder, he could think of other scenarios. At least she hoped. She looked at Gibson, half expecting him to say something, like he’d done when they’d met with Mr. Rockefeller the first time, but he didn’t and that was probably for the best. She smiled reassuringly at him, took his hand in hers, and looked at Paul again.

“Are you going to say something, Paul?”

“Yes,” he said as if he hadn’t been put on pause for three minutes.

The Sheriff went over everything he had—or thought he had—on David: his mischief at Camp Hero, his fight with Jake, his discussion with Ivy, the gas cans in the house, and first and foremost his refusal to give the Sheriff his real identity.

Before he could ask a question, Scully ignored all she’d just heard and countered: “Have you identified the body you found in our house?”

“I’ll be honest with you: at first, I thought it might have been someone you’d secretly kept there.”

“What? No, of course not, we were the only three persons living in that house.” The Peacock family suddenly flashed in her head— _they_ had had things to hide, horrible things, in their home—and a shiver ran down her spine. She shuddered and pushed the memory out of her mind.

“Well, now I know _that_ , but I’m still having a bit of a trust issue here, _Mary_.”

“Who did you find in our house?” she repeated gently.

The Sheriff waited an instant, and then said, “Jake. Jake Gill.”

“Jake was in our house?” Oh God, she didn’t want to think about what she and Mulder had been doing just before they’d realized the house was on fire, but … God!

“You were expecting another name?”

“I-I wasn’t—I don’t know. Yes. No. Maybe.”

“Did you have guns in your home?”

Scully frowned. “No.”

Paul nodded. “Okay. And since we’re on the subject of identifying people, would _you_ mind telling me your full name?” he asked. “I know it’s Sully or … Scully.”

“I’m sorry, Paul, but I can’t do that. What I _can_ tell you is that we’re not a threat to this community and we did nothing wrong.”

He looked at Gibson again. “It has something to do with this kid, doesn’t it? Something happened to him.”

Scully didn’t say anything, and Paul leaned back into his chair, staring at them both. He drummed his index fingers on the edge of his desk, thoughtful. He eyed Scully, then eyed Gibson, and repeated the process two or three times.

“I might be wrong here, but I’m going to guess he’s not your son. He doesn’t have your eyes, your mouth, your nose, anything.” He paused and stared some more. “And he doesn’t look like David—whatever his name is—either.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Scully said softly.

Paul scoffed. “That’s what your husband said.” He leaned forward. “But I don’t believe he was adopted, sorry. I don’t believe you are—in any way—his legal guardians. And that’s where I have a problem. Feel free to interrupt any time, buddy,” he said to Gibson.

Gibson shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

“I understand that in some cases,” Paul continued, “people go into hiding because their lives are at risk. They disappear from the face of the earth and become new persons. Like with the Witness Protection Program. But it’s my understanding that even in their previous lives, these persons were a family.”

“I haven’t been kidnapped, if that’s going to be your next question,” Gibson said.

“But they’re not your parents or your guardians either, are they?” Paul guessed.

“Yes, they are,” he said with a little less conviction.

Paul sighed. “You know what Stockholm Syndrome is, kid?”

Gibson shook his head, no.

“It’s when a victim of kidnapping develops feelings of trust or affection towards their captors.”

“I haven’t been kidnapped,” the boy repeated.

Paul raised his brows. “If you suffered from Stockholm Syndrome, you’d probably say that, too.”

“I’m a medical doctor, Paul, not a felon,” Scully intervened, getting tired of being accused of crimes she used to fight in her real life.

“Well, Hannibal Lecter was a forensic psychiatrist, too.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Lecter? _The Silence of the Lambs_?”

“You’re taking to me about fictional characters now?”

“It’s a good book,” he said dismissively, and Scully wondered if—after the alleged Montauk Project—this community had a tendency to alter reality with bits of fictional works. Paul’s eyes drifted to Gibson. “Do you mind taking off your hat so I can take a look at your head, son?”

“Yes, I do.”

Paul raised his brows and opened his palms at Scully in a way that suggested: “See? I’m right about this. Hannibal Lecter all over again.”

They were all silent for a moment.

“Are we done here?” Scully asked eventually.

Paul heaved a sigh. “Well, yes, I’m not going to ask you where you were the night of the fire because obviously I know.” He leaned forward again, clasping his hands above his desk. “Today’s Sunday, so my hands are tied. But first thing tomorrow I’m going to obtain a warrant and then I’ll order some blood tests.”

“Can we see David now?” she asked.

He stood. “This way.”

Scully closed the door to the interrogation room behind them and Gibson took the chair in front of Mulder. Mulder was resting his forehead on his arms, and he raised his head and sat up straight when he recognized them.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mulder said. It was meant to be cheerful but wasn’t.

Scully crossed to the table, sat next to Mulder, and leaned forward to hug him. He was almost numb in her arms; she knew Mulder’s hugs to be tight but this one was feeble. He’d slumped, almost _dropped_ into her arms.

“How are you holding up?” she asked into his hair, cupping the back of his head.

“I’m fine, Mary,” he replied, triggering a warning in her brain.

She pulled back slowly, stared into his eyes, trying to read what he’d been through, wanting more than ever to be gifted with Gibson’s ability to communicate with him wordlessly, to know how he was feeling exactly and what he was hiding from her in order to spare her some of his burden. She gave him a sad smile and tenderly stroked his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand and her heart sank.

“Hey,” she said, and dug into her pocket. When she found what she was looking for, she took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, placing a small package into his palm. He opened his hand and looked down it and chuckled softly when he saw the sunflower seeds.

“Lifesaver,” he smiled, and looked up at her again. “Thanks.”

He looked exhausted. He had bags under his eyes and several days’ worth of stubble on his face, his hair disheveled. He was pale.

It was a pointless question but she asked anyway: “Have you slept at all?”

“I caught, um, a rerun of _Plan 9 from Outer Space_ and couldn’t turn off the TV—just too good.” He managed a grin.

She lay her hand on his forehead, but he wasn’t feverish. Then she took his pulse at the base of his neck, but it was loud and steady. He removed her hand from his neck and twined his fingers with hers.

“I’m not sick, doc, just a bit tired.”

“I know, but I’m still worried. Have you eaten anything?”

“Hmm …” He narrowed his eyes, slightly swaying backward as he lifted his head up, searching his memory. Afraid he’d fall, she grabbed his elbow, but he sharply bent forward again with the answer: “Yes. I had a couple of donuts. And the coffee was terrible.”

She sighed and dropped her shoulders. She could feel his thumb gently stroking her fingers. She leaned in again and took him into her arms and she caressed the back of his head.

“How long are they going to keep you here?”

“Until I’m ready to talk.”

“They can do that?”

He shrugged in her arms.

“Do you know about Jake?”

“Yeah …”

“And you’re still convinced we can’t tell Paul who we are?”

“Yeah,” he said again, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “Hmm, you smell good, doc,” he whispered.

She squeezed him a fraction tighter. He leaned his cheek on her shoulder and looked up at her from the corner of his eyes.

“Do you think it’s okay if I rest here for just a few minutes?”

He had already closed his eyes. “Rest all you want,” she whispered.

With one hand, she grabbed her chair and pulled it closer to him so that he would be more comfortable. She glanced over at Gibson who had decided to ignore them by pillowing his head over his arms, and she closed her eyes too, listening to Mulder’s breathing as she gently caressed his hair and back.

When she left the precinct with Gibson, she said, “Paul, give David the cot you gave him the other night, please, or as his doctor, I’ll have him transferred to the hospital for medical reasons. He’s been through a lot these past several hours and he’s dead tired.” As she said the words, the start of an idea popped into her mind. Nevertheless, she was worried for his health if he didn’t sleep.

The Sheriff nodded, and Scully crossed to the exit, wrapping her arm around Gibson’s shoulders.

Across the street was a convenience store, and the idea that had minutes ago formed in Scully's head had turned into a plan. She wordlessly stared at Gibson, he nodded, and they crossed the street. She bought five other packages of seeds, a cutter blade, a pen, and duct tape. Back in the car, she tore off a piece of the receipt and wrote just two words onto it: Be ready. If they were treated like criminals, they might as well start acting like them. As if she were using a scalpel, she made a small incision into one of the packages, slid the tiny bit of paper into it, and sealed it up again with the tape.

Then she returned to the precinct with the packages and told Paul, “Please give these to David, it soothes him,” and Paul said he would.

Scully and Gibson were sitting in Fay’s car again, ready to go look for a motel that would open for them, when something piqued her attention.

She gasped. “That’s Jake’s truck,” Scully said and glanced at Gibson.

“But Jake is dead,” the boy said.

“Exactly.”

Gibson nodded at her as if he were giving her a green light. She turned the ignition, pushed the car into drive, and followed the pickup. After a few turns, Scully thought she knew where the car was heading: Camp Hero. And if that was the case, there was only one person who could be driving.

Just before the Camp Hero gate, she stopped the car, told Gibson to stay put and got out. She trotted toward the camp entrance and caught sight of a young woman making her way across the fence.

“Congratulations,” Scully said. “You killed him.”

Ivy whirled around and jumped back down from the fence to face Scully. “What?” Ivy said, and Scully noticed she had a gun in her hand. “What are you doing here?”

Scully slowly raised her hands in peace. “I followed you.”

“Why?”

“My husband has been arrested after the fire.”

She looked surprised. “Your husband?”

“Yes, you saw him the other night at Karen’s restaurant, remember? You talked to us.”

“I remember you, I know who you are, but why would they arrest him?”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Scully said gently, slowly walking toward the other woman.

“Don’t come any closer!” she yelped.

Scully raised her hands again and stopped. “Okay, okay.” She looked at the young woman. “Are you—” The question she was about to ask made her roll her eyes in her head. “Are you Ivy? Jake's girlfriend?”

“ _Ex_ -girlfriend,” she said sharply.

Scully pursed her lips. “All right … Ivy, can you tell me what happened last night? Did you set our house on fire?”

She frowned. “Your house?”

“Yes, our house. My son, my husband, and me, we were all sleeping when the fire began.”

She shook her head in what seemed to be denial. “No …”

“You didn’t know?” Scully realized.

“No, of course not! I followed him! I followed _Jake_ inside! It used to be his parents’ house, he’s used it before, and so when he got inside, I figured he was using it again! I swear I didn’t know you were there.” She was breathing hard. “Are you all okay?”

“We’re all safe, yes.” Scully raised her brows. “Well, all but Jake.”

Ivy grabbed her head. “Oh, thank God …” She looked at Scully again. “What was Jake doing in your house?”

Scully shook her head. She was hoping Ivy—or whoever this girl was—would answer that.

“We had a fight.” Ivy paused. “And I shot him.”

“You shot him?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You must be heavy sleepers if you didn’t hear our argument or the gunshot.”

Scully tried to breathe steadily. “Why did you kill him?”

“Do you know who I am?” she said, and Scully noticed the change in her voice. There was anger now.

“You told me you were Ivy, Jake’s ex-girlfriend.”

“Right! Ex- as in twenty years ago! And look at me! LOOK AT ME! Do I look like someone who was old enough to date _anyone_ twenty years ago?”

“Why don’t you explain it to me, Ivy?”

“He’s ruined my life!”

She was getting irritated, nervous, and she was yanking her gun in the air in a way that Scully didn’t like. She wished she had her gun, too.

“I know you’re a good person. My husband told me you helped him out of those caves over there.”

Ivy turned around to look and then faced Scully again. “Yeah …”

“Why? Why did you help him?”

“I didn’t _help_ him, I needed to get him out of there. I was working on Jake’s mind, but he was less responsive with your husband around.”

“What does it mean, ‘working on Jake’s mind’?”

“I had given him my gun, I wanted him to put a bullet in his head, but instead he used the gun grip to attack your husband.”

Scully was beginning to see the whole picture. She realized that Jake must have sneaked into their house in order to kill Mulder in his sleep.

“So later, you followed him to our house—thinking it was his—and after you killed him, you burned the house down so it would look like an accident?” Scully asked, though she thought that it was not very neatly done since gas cans had been left and found on the site.

“I didn’t want to hide anything. I didn’t care what it looked like. I felt a bit of relief. And I wanted him to burn in Hell.”

“Ivy, my husband has been arrested because of that fire … can you help him once again by coming to the station with me?”

“What?? Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve told you? I’ve been abused and trapped for as far back as I can remember, and you think I’m gonna go with you and be put in jail for the rest of my life?”

“Can you at least give me your gun?” Scully asked as nicely as she could. That would surely be a good start if it were the murder weapon. Mulder’s fingerprints weren’t on it, and Scully would make sure hers weren’t on it either.

Scully started slowly toward Ivy, but Ivy narrowed her eyes in a threatening way, tilted her chin down, and ordered, “Don’t come any closer,” and Scully had an awkward feeling that her legs weren’t responding to her brain anymore.

“Ivy, what are you doing?” she asked worriedly.

Ivy didn’t reply, but Scully kept walking forward in spite of her better judgment.

“Ivy, I can help you, I’m a medical doctor. Tell me how I can help you.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help. I need to disappear.”


	13. Adieu.

MONDAY NOVEMBER 30, 1998, 9:23 A.M.

Mulder had given in to his exhaustion. He was sleeping, draped over the table, when he felt fingers nudging at his shoulder. He looked up, groggy, and recognized the Sheriff. Hardaway flipped the switch and the light flickered a few times before coming fully to life with a clattering sound. Mulder squinted his eyes against the abrupt light and sat upright, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Am I free to go?” he asked.

The Sheriff stood silently for a moment, motionless, his eyes fixated on Mulder’s face. He shook his head slowly, and then took the chair opposite Mulder and slid it across the floor. He sat next to Mulder.

“What is it?” Mulder asked when the other man hadn’t yet uttered a word.

“I have bad news and worse news,” he said gravely.

Mulder’s blood ran cold in his veins. With a start, he was fully awakened and aware of everything. He held still with strained senses. He heard the ticking of his watch over the loud beats of his heart pounding in his ears. He felt cold perspiration form in heavy drops on his forehead. He had a faint metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

“What happened? Are Mary and Jason—” he couldn’t even form the question entirely, the words caught in his throat.

“No. There’s been an accident.”

“No,” Mulder said firmly, grimacing, refusing to hear the news.

“The road was icy after the snowfall. Your wife was driving Fay Slater’s car when apparently it hit some black ice and she lost control of the vehicle.”

“This can’t be.”

“The car veered off the road,” Hardaway continued, “and hit a fire hydrant and then a tree.”

“No,” Mulder whispered. _Scully can’t be dead … And Gibson …?_ A wave of nausea passed over him and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. His skin prickled with shock.

“There was an explosion … One-car accident … They died at the scene …”

The air exploded from him. Mulder felt himself hyperventilating. Hardaway was parsing out the details of the accident but Mulder couldn’t listen anymore; his mind, his whole body had gone numb. They were dead? No. He refused to believe that. He dropped his head. His body was shaking. His head was spinning. The pit of his stomach hurt as if he’d been shot at gunpoint. He was bleeding out. It was his fault. Why hadn’t he been there? Maybe it wasn’t too late. He stood with a start, wanting to rush outside, go to the scene of the accident, get Scully and Gibson out of the car, fill his lungs with much-needed air, there was no more air in this room, he was asphyxiated, but his legs gave way, his knees jerked with an invisible kick, and he almost fell. He was paralyzed with terror.

“Easy,” Hardaway said, grabbing Mulder’s elbows.

Tears obstructed Mulder’s sight and he couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t breathe. He’d been floating into space or somewhere and hadn’t paid attention and then he got hit by a meteor coming full speed and all the air in a seven-planet galaxy radius had been sucked out. He was too downright exhausted to fight back but he wanted to punch the news bearer.

Hardaway reached out to Mulder’s neck and Mulder yanked his hand away. The Sheriff held his hands up. “I just want to check your pulse. You’re hyperventilating. You need to sit down. Calm down,” he said gently.

Mulder let him.

“Your pulse is way too high, David. Please sit down. Take deep, slow breaths.”

Mulder wanted to sit down again, but missed the chair and fell heavily to the ground. He rolled onto his side, his knees drawn up to his chest, rocking himself back and forth and sagging to the floor, shaking uncontrollably, tears silent in his choked, impossible breaths. His breathing was too fast, that much he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He saw Scully. In his mind. She was against him when they’d fallen asleep together. His hands remembered the curves and warmth of her as though she were right here. Closing his eyes, her perfume was in his nose, his hand was running over the swell of her bare breast, so soft and warm. So alive. He opened his eyes, struggling to focus on Hardaway’s voice telling him to calm down and breathe, but all he could see were bright white lights dancing in front of his eyes.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Mulder heard.

Later on, two EMTs rolled Mulder out of the police station into an ambulance. As soon as it started moving, the oxygen mask was removed from his face and Mulder felt the EMT shake him gently.

“Mulder,” the guy called—Mulder knew this voice. “Mulder, come on, wake up. You did great, everything went as planned.”

Mulder opened his eyes with a start and reflexedly grabbed at the man’s uniform. Byers was hovering over him.

“Damn, you okay there? For a second there I thought you weren’t faking.”

Mulder released him, and gasped, “Scully?”

“She’s safe,” Byers said, and then frowned. “You weren’t faking,” he realized. “Come on,” he said, and helped him up, “sit up. She’s safe, he's safe, both of them are safe, everything’s fine. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Mulder sat on the edge of the stretcher and dropped his face into his hands. He felt Byers squeeze his shoulder and, after a moment, he breathed, “Yes. Let’s get out of here.”

During the drive, Byers and Langly—who was driving—explained that if the Sheriff hadn’t called for an ambulance, the ambulance would have come anyway to pick him up. When the vehicle finally pulled over after an excruciating hour, Mulder saw Scully bracing herself against a greenish minivan.

Mulder jumped out of the ambulance before Langly had even stopped the vehicle. He crossed over to her in long strides, threw his arms around her waist—she coiled hers around his neck—and their bodies collapsed onto one another. He drew her to his quaking chest, scooping her so close that her feet left the ground as his lips claimed hers in a soul-searing kiss. He breathed her in and lost himself in their kiss, the tempest of emotions that claimed his heart, mind, and entire being opening like a floodgate as he sank into her tight embrace, feeling the warmth spread between them even through the multiple layers of their winter clothing. He’d never get tired of kissing Scully. Never. And he’d never stop kissing her as long as she let him.

“Okay,” he heard Frohike from somewhere behind him, “what the hell happened while you were gone?”

Mulder smiled against Scully's lips and he switched his brain off.


	14. Epilogue.

Mulder and Scully slid into the seat at the far back of the minivan, and the roller coaster of emotions subsided slowly. Scully explained all that had happened with _Ivy_ and how Gibson had found her unconscious on the Camp Hero lot, how she couldn’t find Ivy afterward and found the same needle mark as Mulder’s on her shoulder, how she’d returned to Dr. Brenner’s office and destroyed Mulder’s blood sample, how she’d faked the accident and how they’d have to repay the Slaters for their Wrangler, but Mulder paid less and less attention, and Scully stopped talking when she realized he’d fallen asleep on her lap. She draped her arm over his shoulder protectively, and leaned her head back against the headrest. The Gunmen took shifts behind the wheel, and about twelve hours later they were in Charleston, West Virginia. Scully awakened and found Mulder was still asleep, one hand wrapped underneath her thigh, all curled up against her. It was night and the guys had stopped the van.

“What’s going on?” Scully asked softly.

Frohike turned around from the front seat. “This is where we say goodbye.” He pointed outside. “Langly just went to get you a room and you can drive on tomorrow without us.”

The Gunmen left them with more cash, and Mulder, Scully, and Gibson drove the next day for two straight days until they decided they were far enough. They were in Roswell, New Mexico.

Mulder put Gibson’s luggage down in front of the boarding school for the deaf, and then wordlessly looked at the boy. He held his arms open, and Gibson flung himself into his embrace with a soft sob. He buried his face into Mulder’s chest and they stood there like that for a while, then he opened one arm for Scully to join them and she felt her heart as tight as Mulder’s and Gibson’s arms around her. Shortly after, they checked in at a rural motel, and Mulder slumped onto a chair in the room. He tipped his head back and took a deep breath. They hadn’t said a word since they’d left Gibson.

“Nothing like a crummy motel room,” Scully said humoredly as she closed the door behind her.

“I wish we could have found something better,” he said.

Scully walked over to him and straddled him, sitting on his lap. “No, Mulder, this is perfect, this is us.”

He looked at her and his arms closed around her, his hands resting on her lower back.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “he’s a good kid.”

“He’ll be all right in that school. And we’ll find his parents,” she said, trying to comfort him.

“I hope so.”

“Yeah …” she whispered. She did, too.

She leaned into him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and the other folding between their chests, and she rested the side of her face on his shoulder and inhaled deeply. Her upper body and head went up and down gently with Mulder’s breathing, and she allowed the tension of the past few days to wash away. After a minute, he pushed her hair out of her neck and kissed her forehead. She tilted her face so that their mouths met, and they closed their eyes. His hands slowly trailed down to her butt and then stroked her thighs gently over her jeans.

“You tired?” he asked.

She gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I’m, um …” What was she? she wondered. “What? No, Mulder, I’m not tired.” _Not too much_.

“Good,” he said, and resumed kissing her.

It was a slow kiss, as if part of their exhaustion still weighed over them, but a pleasurable kiss nonetheless, his tongue lingered deep and easy, a kiss that made her stomach flutter and her toes curl in her shoes and her cheeks begin to flush. He spread his legs apart, wedging her knees against either arm support of the chair, and his hand slowly eased down between her legs from behind. A muted cry came from her lips. Mulder was a master in the art of soft touching, she’d come to realize over the course of the week, igniting a fire deep within her.

“You’re overdressed,” he whispered as he grabbed her thighs and got up with a start holding her in his arms.

He dropped her on the bed with a small bounce, and she watched as he took off his shirt and pants, his arousal already apparent. She removed her tee, popped the button of her jeans open, and he kneeled on the bed and stopped her with his hand.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “I wanted to take it slow, to make love to you so slowly you’d beg me to take you, but I don’t know if I can do that anymore. And I’m too afraid that we fall asleep into each other’s arms again, like two misequiped agents trying to get warm in a forest. I’m not letting another night go to waste. I just want to strip you naked and finish what we’ve started forever ago.”

He had said all that so naturally, as if he’d been commenting the weather, that her heart had begun to hammer as though he had announced they were the last of their kind, the last man and woman on Earth—and she was starting to believe it. In any case, his words had shot straight in between her legs.

“All in good time, Mulder. We’ll do slow again in a couple of hours,” she managed to say as she felt blood erratically skittering through her veins.

He smiled and nodded. “Let me,” he said, and she looked down at his hands as he unzipped her and then took off her shoes.

One hand slowly eased inside her pants and cupped her vagina over her panties as he held her gaze, both their breathing quickening. His palm was warm and firm, gently stroking up and down. She arched her back and reached around her back to unhook her bra, getting rid of it. She wound her arms around his back, urging his bare chest to hers and bringing his mouth back to her. She craved his touch, the feel of his skin, his fingers and mouth on her, and her skin pringled with anticipation. Still kissing, she removed his hand from her jeans and brought it to her breasts. He teased her nipple with his thumb for a moment, and she felt lightheaded. Soon enough his lips and tongue were plying her nipples as his fingers kneaded her breasts. Her legs were shaking as if she had some sort of a fever. She ruffled his hair, pressing his face onto her breasts, and shifted to get rid of her pants with her free hand as wave after wave of pleasure, love, and lust washed over her.

He pulled back, breathing hard, and looked into her eyes. “When I said I wouldn’t go slowly I didn’t mean we’re in a rush.” He smiled against her mouth.

He helped her out of her jeans. He slid one arm beneath her back and lay by her side, his mouth level with her breasts. He cupped the one that was closer to him, slightly hovering over it on his elbow, and sucked it into his mouth. He then removed his hand from her breast and pulled her legs apart, trapping one of them between his, and he slid his hand in her panties. She arched her back, her whole body going tense, flooded with desire and heat, and she gripped the bed sheet and clung at his back with her other hand. She was breathing hard and he was building her so easily. Her breathing became even harder as he claimed her lips again and she moaned helplessly into his mouth.

She dropped the sheet and gripped the back of his neck, and he deepened the kiss. She was going to lose it. She ran her fingers in his neck, over the hard muscles of his chest, her nails dug into his stomach, and blindly met his manhood struggling to break free in his boxers. She set him free, wrapped her hand around him, and he slid his finger into her with one soft thrust and stifled a groan. She shifted onto her side and lowered her head to his pulsing erection. She explored him with her tongue, going high on ecstasy, moaning around his arousal as he rubbed his fingers slowly—agonizingly slowly—between her legs. Her breathing was fast and her heart was racing even wilder. It was all heady passion, divine fire, intense, intoxicating …

“Please,” she breathed breathlessly.

His breathing didn’t seem easier for him when he pulled back just a little, and gasped, “Please what?”

“Just … don’t make me beg for mercy.”

He grinned and pushed her back onto her back and got out of his boxers, got her out of her panties, and his hips found hers when he poised himself between her legs. He bent down to kiss her again, briefly, and then cupped her jawline and whispered into her ear, “Don't go anywhere,” before pulling back.

She hastily wrapped her legs at his back, stopping him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just gonna get a raincoat.”

“What??”

“Protection, Scully,” he said softly.

“Oh, don’t bother then, you and I both know I’m not gonna get pregnant.” She squeezed her legs tighter. “I want to feel _you_ , not some piece of latex.”

“You sure?”

She knew he trusted her to be safe, and she trusted that he was, too. “I’m sure.”

He bent down again, stroked her face, boring his gaze into hers. His hand stopped on her neck and he kissed her hard again. His sex was hard and warm, rubbing up and down against hers, occasionally pressing hard against her entrance as in a tease.

She couldn’t move even if she tried, her mind had exploded in the best possible way, unable to process so fast her desire for him, and her heart couldn’t go any faster without medical concerns. She unwrapped her legs and pushed them further apart, granting him full access. She was hardly breathing. She rocked her head back against the pillow, dying in anticipation, her body arching and writhing against his, pressure building faster than she wanted, his rubbing torturously blissful. With hot breaths into her neck, each single one of his touches sent electricity all over her skin. The pit of her stomach has surrendered to flames, and her want and need for him was seemingly unquenchable.

He bent closer down, pressing his weight onto her, searching for her eyes—his were blazing with passion. God, she needed him more than she needed air. Just when Scully felt that she couldn’t take it a second longer, Mulder slowly eased himself inside of her. They gasped and moaned in unison, their mouths only inches away. Mulder dropped his forehead on her shoulder and kissed it, and Scully’s legs relaxed on either side of him. He raised his face and his mouth met hers again as he pulled out, slowly, then eased back inside her, torturing them both with the exquisite sensation. She broke the kiss, panting, and grabbed the back of his neck as he quickened the pace gently. She moved forward, meeting him, forcing him deeper. She wanted him closer, impossibly closer, and so she pushed herself up onto her elbows. Without a word exchanged, he understood: he pulled her up into his arms, outstretched his legs behind her, and she was on him. He wrapped one arm around the small of her back and his other hand softly tugged at her hair, gently tilting her face up as he kissed her neck. She coiled her arms around his neck and began to rock up and down on him with folded knees. When he sensed her legs were losing strength, he gathered her in his arms and leaned back against the mattress, and she braced herself over him on outstretched arms. She rested her forehead against his, and he gripped her butt. Oh fuck. Their breaths mingled as he thrusted in and out relentlessly. She let herself drift into a languorous haze where love made her heart beat louder and coursed down her skin from head to toe in a warm wave. He removed one hand from her behind and started to stroke her front, wringing another loud moan from her. He watched as her breasts bounced, and he craned his neck and sucked one into his mouth. Then the next, still grinding their pelvises together, eager and heavy panting and breathless grunts and moans from both of them, both hovering on the edge of an orgasm they were trying to delay as the rhythm of his hips grew faster and harder. But as he increased the intensity of his thumbing over her sweet spot, she suddenly cried out with release, clutching at his chest, every muscle of her body stiffening and shuddering with waves of orgasm, her back impossibly bowed. He gathered her close, forcing her sweaty body against his, grasping her hips, sucking her cries in his mouth as his thrusts grew even more frenzied, his breathing even more erratic until he finally allowed himself his pleasure to soar and a long growl joined her cry and spasmodic shudders shook his body.

She leaned down onto him, drained of energy, and he reached out for a pillow so that her head was next to his, and he cradled her in his arms as they let the tremors and ragged pants subside, his lips pressed to her cheek. After a moment, she propped herself up and hovered over him.

He was still inside her when she smiled down at him, pushing a few unruly tendrils of hair out of his sweaty forehead. She inhaled and exhaled a long contented sigh and said, “You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

“Pretty much,” he replied. “Are _you_ tired now?”

“Pretty much,” she replied. She gave him a quick peck on the mouth. “But I’ll shower first.”

She slowly eased herself up, releasing him, her body feeling sore—although their three days of driving probably had some responsibility, too—and he grabbed her hand.

“I miss you already,” he said with a pout when she looked back at him.

“I’m just going to wash up. If you happen to drive into me again during the night, I’ll be ready.”

He gaped, and then gave her hand a small tug toward him and grabbed the back of her neck to kiss her again. When he released her, he smiled and whispered into her mouth, “I’m putting that on a bumper sticker.”

After they had both showered, they lay in only their underwear, and he spooned her. He held her so tightly, so _rightly_. He always had, she realized. In this friendship, in this partnership—whatever one wanted to call this life-trusting bond—this was the last commitment to one another they’d been missing. The realization left her in a haze that was nothing short of amazing.

“Are you ready to go back to your life, Mulder?”

“Most definitely.” He kissed the crook of her neck and she twined her fingers with his. “And it’s okay, Scully,” he whispered, “you can platonically go to sleep in my arms, I love the right side of the bed, and in this life or another, I’ll always want to keep you warm—one way or another—if that’s what you like. I’ll try to forget that you’re naked and I promise I won’t do anything you don’t agree to.”

Her eyes closed, she chuckled softly. She had no intention to halt the tender, sensual persuasion—nor would she ever tire of his affection—but she’d sleep for now. “Good night, Mulder.” She squeezed his hand, a comfortable warmth washing over her deep into her heart.

“Sleep tight, Scully.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the ride, guys! Hope you liked it :) Leave a comment or a kuddos, let me know what you thought ...


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